Still. On the fifth night, which is fair and warm, my husband pays one of the stewardesses to mind the children for the evening, while he whisks me away to the glamour of the second-class dining room for drinks and dinner à deux, all dressed up, just like old times. He’s looking especially handsome. The burnish on his strawberry-blond hair might be fading a trifle, and he still walks with a hint of a limp, but the sight of Thorpe in his dinner jacket never fails to set my heart thumping and my back itching with the memory of a certain sea grape tree on an island, far away. After dinner there’s dancing, and after dancing we spill onto the deserted promenade deck for what my husband likes to call a spot of kissing. Mind you, we’ve both drunk a great deal of champagne, and as soon as I inhale Thorpe’s good, clean smell, the kissing turns serious, and there we are, necking desperately against the railing like a pair of teenagers, Thorpe’s wicked hand down the front of my dress, when some damned kids start yelling for their mama and papa and spoil the fun. Especially when they turn out to be our kids, followed by the exhausted stewardess we hired to prevent just such an interruption. Oh well.

But Thorpe responds in good humor. He swings Maggie into one arm and takes Jack’s little palm in his other hand, and Wilfred trots along after them, explaining how he tried to get the twins to stay in bed, really he did. I look around for the stewardess, but the ship has swallowed her up. Not that I blame her.

Now, it’s June, remember, and we’re fairly far north, and even though it’s past ten o’clock, the sun hasn’t quite set. The air is filled with this incandescence, this golden light, and for an instant or two I allow myself the pleasure of watching my husband bear our children down the deck, gilded in sunshine. The beauty of it drenches me. I think my heart stops. And that’s when I spot them.