In the book, Desmond interpreted this incident and Anderton’s reaction to it as an example of the ways in which Anderton had been a victim of the narrow roles available to a woman in the 1950s. Jane saw it differently. She viewed the whole radio disaster as a willing sacrifice Anderton had made for love. She’d given up a part of her career for the sake of a man she loved deeply, no matter how often she referred to him as a slob or a bastard in her letters. It was probably best not to point it out to Desmond and confuse him further.

A breeze blew in the window, stirring the warm, slightly musty air. The climate was now so unpredictable—hot one day, cold the next—it was like living with an unmedicated manic-depressive who, at any moment, could fly into a-frenzied rage and start ripping down the wallpaper. Two days ago there had been massive tornadoes in Texas that killed eighteen people and turned an entire small city into a heap of rubble; a hurricane “of biblical proportions” was threatening St. Kitts. No wonder people everywhere were so uneasy, so fearful. This bedroom, now so warm Jane was beginning to feel drowsy, had been cold last night. The room had twin beds, but when she complained about the chill, Thomas had crawled under the covers with her and cuddled against her back, enfolded her in his big arms and rubbed his feet against hers. They’d listened to the night sounds of the old house and the old-money estate, the creaking of trees against the roof, the shudder of antique windows, the faint smack of the lake against docks and shoreline. When she felt him rocking against her, lightly, shyly sliding his penis along the back of her thigh, she was overcome with loneliness. He started to make love to her, and she found herself drifting away from her own body until she was perched on one of the creaking tree branches, quietly watching him nuzzling and sucking and prodding. When he finished, he slipped back into his own bed and she stayed somewhere outside herself and watched as she buried her face in her pillow and silently wept.

The smell of Caroline’s cigarettes wafted in on the breeze and she gazed out the window again. There was Thomas, there was Gerald, the pieces of her life spread out on the rolling yellow leaf-covered lawn below her. How nice it all looked in this late afternoon autumn light. How nice it all looked from a distance.

“You look comfortable.”

She turned and Dale was leaning into the room, his hands gripping the door frame, dressed in khaki tennis shorts that made his olive skin look even darker. How did he maintain this disconcerting tan? Probably made furtive visits to a downtown tanning salon run by a homely high school dropout who was in love with him.