“—and at the end of the evening, he took her home and gave her a kiss, that’s all, nothing more, just a dear little . . . a dear little kiss . . . the way they kiss in fairy tales . . .”

“But not in real life.”

“No. In real life, the boy wants more than just a little kiss.”

We lay together, staring at the stars. Listening to the distant party, the brittle noise of human ecstasy. The sand was still warm. My head swam. After a minute or two, our fingertips found each other, I don’t know how, whether we were both searching or just me. Or him. Only the tips, you know, so that the fingers wove together up to the middle joint and no further. We said nothing about this. My dress covered the entire encounter, so that it might not be happening at all. Except it was.

“Mrs. Randolph—”

“Lulu.”

“Lulu. Shall I take you home?”

“Yes, please.”

He helped me into the sidecar of his motorcycle, which was parked nearby, and together we headed west along the empty road. The rush of cool air sobered me, so that by the time we reached my little bungalow, ten minutes later, I was able to climb convincingly out of the contraption and stand before him and say, “That was all nonsense back there, wasn’t it?”

“If you say so.”

“Except you can still call me Lulu. I meant that part.”

“Lulu.” He touched my cheek, my hair. His hand fell back to his side. “Are you all right?”

“I’m myself, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Well, if you need anything,” he said gravely, “just ask.”

I could have said a million things to that, I guess. Much later, I asked him what he expected me to answer, what he hoped I would answer, and he said he didn’t know. He said it was all in my hands, at that moment, which is a terrible burden for a girl to bear, though of course that was not his intention. What he meant was that the decision was mine, and mine alone. He placed himself in my hands, like a gift, only I didn’t realize this at the time. I didn’t recognize the gift. No one had ever given himself to me before. Always he expected it the other way around.

So I just clapped my hand over my mouth and said, “My purse!”

“Right here.” He lifted his left hand, from which my evening bag dangled, a little the worse for sand, large and lumpy with camera, lipstick, compact, lighter.

I said thanks and drew it from his fingers. I leaned forward and kissed him gently on the lips.

He turned and left. Later I discovered a piece of paper folded inside the purse, on which he had written a telephone number and the single letter T.