She waved at him as she headed toward the pool, and lay floating in the hot sun for a long time and then she lay down on one of the lounge chairs on her stomach. And he came and sat down next to her a little while later, looking happy but exhausted.

“Remind me not to do this next year,” he said, as though they were old friends. But they were actually growing familiar just from running into each other regularly in all the same places. They lived and worked in the same place, and even bought their groceries at the same midnight market. “I say that every year.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “These people drive me crazy.”

She grinned as she looked at him. He was funny without meaning to be. And he looked wonderfully harassed, but he also looked as though he enjoyed it. “I bet you have fun doing it.”

“Sure I do. Sherman probably had a hell of a good time with the march on Atlanta. But it was probably a lot simpler to orchestrate than this.” He leaned closer to her so no one else would hear him. “The guys figure that maybe this year I should have bought lobster, they said I've done steak, burgers, and hot dogs for the last three years and it's getting old. The women think we should be having it catered. Christ, did you ever go to a catered picnic when you were a kid? I mean whoever heard of a catered hot dog for the Fourth of July?” He looked outraged and she laughed, the idea amused her. “Did you go to a Fourth of July picnic when you were growing up?”

She nodded. “We used to go to Cape Cod. When I was older we went to Martha's Vineyard. I loved it. There's nothing like that out here. That wonderful feeling of summer towns and perfect beaches and the kids you play with every summer and wait all year to see. It was great.”

“Yeah.” He smiled at his own memories. “We used to go to Coney Island. Ride the roller coaster and look at the fireworks. My father would do a great barbecue at night on the beach. When I was older, they had a house on Long Island and my mom did a real picnic in the backyard. But I always thought the Coney Island days were better.” He still had wonderful memories of the things he had done with his parents in his childhood. He had been an only child and he had been crazy about his parents.

“Do they still do that?”

“No.” He shook his head, thinking about them, but the memories were all tinged with warm feelings now, the grief was gone. The shock of losing them was long over. He looked at Adrian, he liked what he saw in her eyes, liked the way her dark hair fell over her shoulders. “They died. After they got the house on Long Island. A long time ago …” Sixteen years. He'd been twenty-two when his father died, twenty-three when his mother died a year later. “I think I do this whole Fourth of July production because of them. Maybe it's my way of saying I remember.” He smiled warmly at her. “It seems like most of us out here don't have families, we have girlfriends and kids and dogs and friends, but our aunts and uncles and parents and grandparents and cousins are all somewhere else. I mean, seriously, have you ever met anyone who grew up in L.A.? I mean someone normal, who doesn't look like Jean Harlow and is actually a guy who happens to be madly in love with his sister?” She laughed at him. He was so real, and so deep, and so solid, and at the same time he was lighthearted and funny. “Where are you from?”

She wanted to say L.A., but she didn't. “I'm from Connecticut. New London.”

“I'm from New York. But I hardly ever get back there. Do you get back to Connecticut sometimes?”

“Not if I can help it.” She grinned. “It stopped being fun right about the time they stopped going to Martha's Vineyard, when I went to college. My sister lives there, though.” She and her kids and her incredibly boring husband. It was so hard to relate to any of them, and ever since she'd married Steven, she didn't even try. She knew she had to tell them about the baby one of these days, though, but she wanted to wait until Steven came home, after he came to his senses. It would be just too complicated to explain that she was pregnant and he was gone, let alone why, all of which was why she was trying to put the pregnancy out of her mind for the moment.

“It's too bad you can't make it tonight,” he said forlornly. She nodded, embarrassed about the lie, but it was just easier not to go. She got in the pool and swam again, and he went back to his preparations for dinner, and a little while later he went back to his apartment to marinate the steaks. The barbecue sounded like a big production.

And at five o'clock she went back to her apartment and lay on the bed and tried to read. But she couldn't concentrate. Lately it was hard to do that most of the time, there were just too many things on her mind. And as she lay there, she could hear the sounds of the barbecue going on. At six o'clock people started to arrive. There were music and laughter, and she could hear what sounded like about fifty people. She went out on her deck after a while, where she could hear the noise and smell the food, but they couldn't see her, and she couldn't see them. But it all sounded very festive. There was the clinking of glasses, and someone was playing old Beatles albums and music from the sixties. It sounded like fun, and she was sorry she hadn't gone. But it was too awkward to explain why Steven wasn't there, even though she had said he was in Chicago on business. But it was embarrassing going out alone. She hadn't done it yet, and she wasn't ready to start. But smelling the food was making her desperately hungry. She finally went back downstairs and looked in her fridge, but nothing looked as good as what she smelled, and all of it was too much trouble to cook. She was suddenly dying for a hamburger. It was seven-thirty and she was absolutely starving. She hadn't eaten anything since breakfast, and she wondered if she could just slip into the group, grab something to eat, and disappear again. She could always write Bill Thigpen a check later for what she owed for participating in the dinner. There was no harm in that. It wasn't really like going out. It was just eating. Like going to a fast-food place, or Chinese takeout. She could even grab a hamburger and bring it back. She didn't have to hang around for the party.

She hurried upstairs again, looked in the mirror in her bathroom, combed her hair, pulled it back and tied it with a white satin ribbon, and then she slipped on a white lace Mexican dress she and Steven had bought on a trip to Acapulco. It was pretty and feminine and easy to wear, and hid the tiny bulge that didn't show but made it difficult to wear slacks or jeans now. But it still didn't show in her dresses. She put on silver sandals and big dangly silver earrings. She hesitated for just a moment before she went back downstairs. What if they all had dates, or if she didn't know anyone at all? But even if he had a date, at least she knew Bill Thigpen, and he was always easygoing and friendly. She went downstairs then, and a moment later, she was hovering at the edge of the crowd near one of the big picnic tables where the food was laid out. There were groups of people clustered everywhere, laughing and chatting and telling stories, some were sitting near the pool, with their plates on their laps, or drinking wine, or just relaxing and enjoying the party. Everyone looked as though they were having a good time, and standing at the barbecue in a red-and-white-striped shirt and white pants and a blue apron over them was Bill Thigpen.

Adrian hesitated, watching him, he was handing out steaks with a professional air, and chatting with everyone as they came and went, but he seemed to be alone, not that it really mattered. And she realized then that she didn't even know if he had a girlfriend, not that it really made any difference. But somehow she had assumed that he wasn't involved with anyone. He had always seemed so unencumbered. She walked slowly over to him, and his face broke into a broad smile as he saw her. He took it all in, the white lace dress, the shiny dark hair, her big blue eyes, she looked beautiful, and he was thrilled to see her. He felt like a kid, with a crush on a neighborhood girl. You didn't see her for weeks, and then suddenly you turn a corner, and there she is, looking gorgeous and you feel like a fool, stumbling all over yourself, and then she's gone again, and your whole world is over, until you meet again. Lately, he'd been beginning to feel as though his whole life, or the only worthwhile part of it, was just a series of chance meetings.

“Hi, there!” He blushed, and hoped she thought it was the heat of the barbecue. He wasn't sure why, but she was the first married woman he'd ever had a serious crush on. And it wasn't just that he liked looking at her. He liked talking to her too. The worst of it was that he liked everything about her. “Did you bring your friends?”

“They called at the last minute and said they couldn't make it.” She told the lie with ease, and looked up at him happily as he watched her.

“I'm glad … I mean …yeah, actually, I am glad.” And then he pointed to the meat he was cooking. “What can I do for you? Hot dog, hamburger, steak? I recommend the steaks myself.” He tried to cover what he felt with ordinary pastimes, like cooking dinner. He really did feel like a kid every time he saw her. But so did she. And the funny thing was, all she wanted to do was talk to him. He was always so easy to be with and to talk to.

She had been dying for a hamburger a few minutes ago, but suddenly the steaks looked terrific. “I'll have a steak please. Rare.”

“Coming right up. There's lots of other stuff over there on the table. Fourteen different kinds of salad, some kind of cold soufflé, cheese, Nova Scotia salmon, I don't do anything with that stuff. I'm the barbecue specialist, but go take a look and by the time you get back, I'll have your steak for you.” She did, and he noticed that she had piled her plate with the salads and shrimp and other things she had found at the buffet table. She had a healthy appetite, which was surprising, given how thin she was. She was obviously very athletic.