they were too boring for Brenda.

“I’m going to read,” she said. “Good night.”

It was nearly nine o’clock. Dark outside, now that it was August.

“Want to go for a walk?” Peter said. “I’ve been here al day and I haven’t seen the beach.”

“Have you cal ed for a hotel room?” Melanie said.

He walked toward her, wrapped his arms around her waist. “No.”

“You’re not staying here, Peter.” Melanie tried to lean back, away from him, but he hugged her tight. She held her body rigid, resisting. In an hour, she would have to sneak out to see Josh.

“You have two beds. I’l just sleep in the other bed. Al very innocent.”

“No,” Melanie said. “The answer is no.”

“I love you, Mel.”

“I don’t believe you.”

He bent down and kissed her hair. “I’m sorry about Frances.”

“I can’t even stand to hear her name, you know that?” Melanie said. “Thinking about her makes me want to vomit. It makes me break out in a rash.”

Peter held Melanie apart so he could look at her. “What I did was wrong. I was confused and angry and frustrated with you, Melanie, and with the whole process you were putting us through. The only thing that seemed to matter to you, at al , was having a baby. There were times, lots of times, in bed and otherwise, when I was pretty sure you didn’t even see me, I mattered to you so little. We lost each other, Mel, and I’m not blaming you for what happened because it was my fault. I did the wrong thing. I take ful responsibility and I am now asking you to forgive me.”

“Now, because I’m pregnant.”

“That’s not it.”

“Wel , why now, then? Why not my first week here? Why not when I cal ed you sixteen times?”

“I was angry that you’d left.”

Melanie laughed. “That is so rich.”

“I was confused. Did you know you were pregnant when you left?”

“I did.”

“See? I could be furious with you, too. But I’m not. I forgive you and I want you to forgive me.”

“What if I can’t forgive you?” she said.

“Ah, but I know you, Mel. And I know that you can.”

“Except every time you cal to say you’re working late, or have to stay in the city . . .”

“Frances is leaving New York,” Peter said. “When I ended things, she put in for a transfer. She’s going to California to be closer to her sister.”

“There wil be someone else,” Melanie said. “Even if Frances goes, there wil be someone else.”

“Yes,” Peter said. “There wil be you. There wil be our child.”

Melanie sighed. She heard the crunch of tires on shel s out on the street and she cocked her head. Josh? She looked out the window. The car moved along down the street.

“You have to go,” Melanie said. “To the hotel. I’m not wil ing to let you stay here.”

Peter whipped out his cel phone. “Fine,” he said. He sounded angry and officious. “I’l just cal the cab and have him take me someplace.”

“Good idea,” Melanie said. “I’m going to bed. I’l pack your things and set them outside the door.”

“Wil I see you tomorrow?” Peter asked.

“Maybe just for a minute,” Melanie said. “Cal me in the morning and tel me where you’re staying. I’l come to you. But you should go home tomorrow, Peter. Ted comes on Friday and this house is too smal for . . .”

“Come home with me tomorrow,” Peter said.

“No,” Melanie said. “I’l be home in a few weeks.”

“You’re staying because of your . . .”

“I’m staying because I’m happy here.”

“Happy with him?”

“Happy here.”

“But you wil come home?”

“Eventual y, Peter . . .”

“I love you. What can I say to make you believe me?”

“Wil you get out of here, Peter?” Melanie said. “Please?”

Peter stood on the flagstone walk until his cab pul ed up, but by then it was nine-thirty. Melanie watched him from her bedroom window. Josh: She had to tel Josh. Melanie lay back on her bed. She was exhausted. Josh would not take the news wel , even though they had both acknowledged that theirs was a summer romance. He was going back to Middlebury right after Labor Day; the story of Josh and Melanie ended there. To take it any further was comical. Melanie pictured herself and her newborn baby bunking with Josh in his dorm room. Absurd. Ridiculous. They had two and a half weeks left. Then it was over. Melanie closed her eyes. It would have been better if Peter had waited, she thought. Why he felt compel ed to come now . . .

But, she thought, the heart wants what it wants.

When Melanie woke up, soft light was peeking in around the edges of the shades and the damn wren was chirping. She sat up in bed and checked the clock. Six-thirty. Her feet tingled, and it felt like she was suffering from an irregular heartbeat. She had missed Josh, again. And on the worst possible night. Melanie fel back against her pil ows; she was stil in her clothes, and hence, her body had that stiff, grungy, slept-in-her-clothes feeling. She would have to corner Josh this morning somehow. But she would have to be so, so careful because of Vicki and Brenda. Vicki knew, or thought she knew, but how? Did cancer give a person a sixth sense, or was Melanie simply transparent to her best friend? It didn’t real y matter.

Melanie would deny it—and certainly Josh would deny it. But they would have to redouble their efforts to keep it a secret.

Melanie heard voices in the living room. Blaine was awake. Melanie rose from bed and undressed. It was stil hot, stil muggy; even with open windows, her room was a roasting pan. She put on a robe. Outdoor shower, she thought. Talk to Josh, go to Peter’s hotel (meet him in the lobby, where it was safe), get Peter to the airport.

Melanie stepped out into the living room. Her bare feet hit the buttery floorboards at the same time that Peter cleared his throat and launched into Make Way for Ducklings in a soft but charming reading voice. No, Melanie thought. Not possible. But yes—Peter was sitting next to Blaine on the blue sofa, reading. Melanie stopped in her tracks. Peter’s overnight bag sat open behind the sofa; he was wearing his light-green pajamas. Had he slept here? Not possible. Melanie had stood at the window until the cab whisked him away.

Melanie approached the sofa. Peter’s voice was engaging and whimsical as he recited the names of the ducklings: Jack, Kack, Lack, Mack, Nack, Ouack, Pack, and Quack. . . . For someone who claimed he had never wanted children, he was doing a remarkable job.

“What are you doing here, Peter?” Melanie said.

He looked up, as though astonished to find her there. “Good morning!” he said. “We’re reading.”

“I told you . . . you said that . . . I thought . . .”

“No hotel rooms,” Peter said. “Every room on the island, booked.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“So did I. But it was true. Because of the heat wave on the East Coast, I guess. So I came back. The door was open. I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“I do mind,” Melanie said.

Blaine’s facial expression was pained; he looked like he was going to burst. “I want Peter to finish reading,” he said. “Please?”

“By al means,” Peter said. He smiled triumphantly at Melanie and continued regaling Blaine with the plight of the Mal ard family.

Melanie stormed out to the shower.

When Melanie emerged, clean and dressed and ready to take Peter to the airport—because this was where they were going, most immediately, before Josh showed up—Blaine was at the kitchen table eating his Cheerios. It might have been any other morning, except for the presence of Peter’s overnight bag, which was as unsettling as a dead animal in the room. Melanie smiled at Blaine; the poor child had been through enough this summer, he did not need to witness the decaying insides of Melanie’s marriage.

“Where’s Peter?”

“At the beach,” Blaine said. “He wanted to see it. And he was wearing his bathing suit. He’s going swimming. I wanted to go with him but he said I had to stay put.”

Melanie sank into a kitchen chair. It was seven-fifteen. She could take the Yukon to the beach, pick up Peter, bring him back to shower and change and get him out of here. But could she do it in forty-five minutes? Would Peter sense urgency and wonder about it, and resist? Would Vicki or Brenda wonder why Melanie was so eager to get Peter out of the house by eight o’clock?

She took a breath. This is all going to blow up in my face.

“Blow up?” Blaine said.

“Did I say that aloud?” Melanie asked.

“What’s going to blow up?” Blaine said.

“Nothing,” Melanie said. “Nothing.”

B e careful. That was the best advice his father had to offer, and the more Josh considered things, the more he realized these were the only words anybody could offer to someone in Josh’s position. Josh wrote the words in his journal: Be careful.

Melanie had pul ed a no-show again last night—so that was twice now. Josh had only waited around until ten-thirty, and he, pointedly, did not drive past Number Eleven on his way home. He had better things to do with his evening hours than track Melanie down. Maybe tonight he would be the one to stay home. Or better stil , maybe he’d cal up Zach and some of his other buddies from high school and go to the Chicken Box. Drink beer, check out the summer girls, dance. But as ever, Josh gave Melanie the benefit of the doubt. She was pregnant after al and, hence, legitimately tired. Or maybe there had been some kind of medical emergency—maybe she had pains, maybe something happened with Vicki.

Melanie wouldn’t stand him up on purpose; she wasn’t like that.

Josh pul ed up in front of Number Eleven. He smel ed bacon and his stomach rumbled. The paper cup of pebbles was in the middle of the flagstone walk. Josh picked it up on his way in.