He did not find her in the lobby, in their room again, nor on the long veranda. He looked along the porch to see where he had sat last night in the dark, and at the memory of who had been sitting in the porch swing, directly under their open window, he was reluctant to run into the Howards this morning. The drugstore, he remembered, was where the bus had come in. He stepped off the porch and started down the hot road that led along the bluff.

A young girl in white shorts, white halter, and white-rimmed sun glasses came tearing around the bend on a bicycle; he had to step quickly aside to escape being run down. Her red curls streamed out from under a white jockey cap and she had passed by before he recognized her as the girl he had seen sun-­bathing on the grass. He turned to look back but he knew her now, and she was no longer the creature of allure she had seemed to be from the bathroom window; her behind, tight in sharkskin, was like a fat white heart upside down on the bicycle seat.

The drugstore was crowded with young girls in various stages of undress. They were buying postcards, magazines, sodas, cigarettes, bathing accessories, Kleenex, sun glasses, sun-­tan oil.

Ethel stood at the drug counter, looking hardly older than the young women in backless dirndls and boys’ trunks; certainly looking smarter. She wore a straight plain dress of blue chambray with a tan belt. He was so uncertain of his welcome that he almost turned to leave.

She glanced up, then bent to open her purse. “Here’s a pencil and some cards,” she said. “Will you write something on them for the boys, please?”

He leaned on the glass counter for a desk and addressed the cards. But when he had got the names down, he could think of nothing to say. On this summer island—in this drugstore, surrounded by so much youth—his sons seemed very far away. Dear Alan, he finally wrote, I saw a terrific submarine from the train and thought of you. Have a fine time but be sure to help your grand­parents as much as you can. . . . Dear Ted, This would be a wonderful place for you boys so we’ll all try to make it together next year. Remind me to tell you of the submarine. He signed the cards Love, Dad, sensing keenly the inadequacy of those words, and of his own feelings. . . .

Ethel had made her purchases. “I’m going back,” she said.

“Yes, I want to put my shorts on and get into the sun.”

“I bought some sun-­tan oil. The beach looked blazing.”

“Ethel—”

“Yes?”

“Let’s go off by ourselves and just lie around . . .”

“We’ll see.”

He dropped the cards into a mailing slot and they stepped into the hot square outside.