I didn’t know if I was relieved or disappointed. She took my hand in an almost careless way and led me to a bald spot beneath a weeping willow where someone had long ago placed Adirondack chairs, the wood of them silvered and smooth. Sara sat me down, then put a hand on each leg, leaned in, and kissed me lightly.

“I thought we’d just get that out of the way.” When she drew back, her lips were slightly parted, the smile in her eyes alone. She took the chair beside me, but left fingertips on my leg, a proprietary touch that delighted me. “Tell me about Gibby French.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Have you ever been with a girl?”

I answered honestly, but the day was like that. “No. Not really.”

“But you’ve had girlfriends?”

“Nothing serious.”

“That’s good. I like that.” She sipped wine, and her profile was flawless.

“How about you?” I asked.

“Men, yes. Relationships, no.” She showed the blue-green eyes. “Does that shock you?”

I shook my head—a lie—and tried to match her frankness with my own. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“What do you do for fun?”

“This is a good start.”

Her hand moved on my leg, but absently. Her eyes had drifted shut, and a half smile played on her lips. I stole a glance at the length of her legs, the thin shirt, and the small, perfect breasts. It lasted a second or two before I looked away, ashamed of myself. I didn’t know what to do or say, and Sara knew as much.

“Just breathe, Gibby French. It’s a lovely, lovely day.”

It was a lovely day. We spoke of things large and small. We drank and laughed, and once, midsentence, she kissed me again. It was longer that time, and certain and real. Afterward, we watched Jason and Tyra swim, looking away only as they emerged from the lake to make a secret place deep in the flowers. For a moment, then, it was awkward, but Sara didn’t care for awkwardness. She stood with the grace I’d come to expect, then settled onto my lap, her palms warm on my face as she kissed me. It was a woman’s kiss, and different from the ones I’d known from girls at school. There was no fumbling or self-consciousness or doubt. She made a shadowed place of her hair—a private world—and in that world she made the rules, too. She pressed hard and drew back, a giver and a tease. She put my hand inside her shirt and squeezed, her fingers over mine as time, for me at least, folded and stretched.

“I see that you two are getting along.”

It was my brother, and he was close. Sara pulled away, but slowly. She squeezed my hand with hers, and then withdrew. “He’s nice,” she said. “I like him.”

“I thought you might.”