The ferry settled in at the dock, and Leigh looked out at a place she had not been in four years. She disembarked along the glinting aluminum ramp, stepped onto the sun-paled, sand-smoothed boards, heard the water lapping against the pillars. It was all unchanged.

Cal had only minutes ago texted that he would not meet her at the ferry. He offered no explanation but gave her directions to the rental: Find Minnesota Trail, turn left, fourth house on the right.

For the moment she was immersed in the crowd flowing out around her, families and groups of friends, boisterous, shouting. With magnified, stunning focus it all overwhelmed Leigh's senses. Children pulling wagons piled high with groceries from the mainland. Their parents telling them to slow down, but with no real urgency because there were no cars on the island. Beyond them, along the asphalt thoroughfare stood the same wood-shingled shops that had always been there. The scene stirred old feelings in her, of charmed summer weekends that felt longer than they had any right to.

She tried to weave through the crowd, like a slow motion play on a basketball court. She made a quick cut around an aimless toddler and broke free. She breezed by the bars they used to go to, and not far past them she spotted Minnesota Trail.

She had done two hours of trains and transfers to get from Manhattan out to Bay Shore, and then experienced that pleasant separation from the real world as the ferry crossed Great South Bay. Cal's texts to rally their group of friends over the last week had become increasingly desperate, and while they all agreed to join him this Friday, Leigh took the day off to get to him early. She knew the others would be following close behind, and was excited to get together with everyone out here once again.

Off the thoroughfare the sand began to take over, edging onto the pavement and creeping up the lawns toward the simple structures of beach bungalows. She made it to the designated house. Cal had apparently decided not to greet her at the front door, either. She took the short ramp of pine boards. Behind a screen door the front door was cracked, and she listened for a moment before pushing her way in.

She knew the house before her eyes adjusted. A living room with a cast-off couch, an open kitchen with flimsy cabinets, a short hallway to two bedrooms and a tight bathroom. Paperbacks and board games. That smell of old cardboard. Maybe a life preserver hung on the wall. Maybe an antique fishing rod with no line.

Cal sat facing the door, at a round wooden table in front of the breakfast bar. He looked to be a couple months overdue for a haircut. A few empty bottles sat on the table.

"You're thinking the place looks familiar," he said. "You know they all do. Same house, different location. That was the joke." He was poking at shredded beer labels with a cocktail straw.

Leigh dropped her travel bag and walked over, gave Cal a firm squeeze on the shoulder and a slap on the head. "You know you had me worried," she said.

"Why?" said Cal. "I only wanted a week at the beach. I emailed and texted everybody."

"Oh, come on. Then you were going on about how it's all over if no one shows up." She picked up one of the bottles. "And you know this is a pathetic look. I can just see you sitting here listening to 'Pyramid Song' over and over all week."

He gave a small laugh. "Once I knew you were coming I tried to make it look as desperate as possible."

Leigh continued on a circle around the table, then took a seat that allowed her to look down the length of the house. "This one really looks familiar. Have we stayed here before?"

"Maybe once or twice," Cal said. "Who knows."

The shades were all drawn.

"Have you been sleeping all day?"

"No," Cal said. "Come on. What is it, like three?"

"Closer to two. Are you drunk?"

"I don't drink alone."

A Korg keyboard sat on end against a wall with a beach towel hanging off of it. The couch was covered in a bed sheet.

"You sleeping out here?" Leigh asked.

"It makes me feel like there are people here," he said. "It sucks to wake up in a bedroom in a quiet house, then walk out and confirm that the rest of the place is as empty as it sounds."

"You know," said Leigh, "if you'd given all of us more notice, someone might have been able to join you a day or two earlier."

"I've been trying to line everybody up for I think two years. No one would commit to a weekend. I decided to grab what was available and just tell you guys it was happening. And still no one said anything. And then I didn't want it to go to waste."

"So you funded a whole week out here by yourself." Leigh paused. "How was that?"

Cal gestured at the space. "Lonely." He downed the last ounce in his bottle. "Relaxing. The quiet isn't nice. But it's useful."

"Cathartic?"

"Whatever that means."

"Well you made it through the hard part, I guess."

A soft thump came from the hallway.

Leigh watched for Cal to react and then continued. "You settled the territory, and now the city folk will follow. Morse and Reyna said they'd take a half-day. They'll be here by six. Now we get to do a weekend. You made it happen."

"Have they texted you that they left their offices yet? Because I've got nothing." He flicked his phone on and held it up to her. "But I did like the beach time. I like the remove of it all. I wouldn't have done it if that weren't the case. This would be quite a stunt just to look pitiful for you guys."

"No one thought that," Leigh said. "But looking around this place, I have to ask, how are you?"

"Small talk is for people who aren't friends."

"I mean that."

"Then ask me something real."

Leigh heard another noise. "Have you been alone this whole time?"

"Yes and no."

With a scrape against the frame the bathroom door opened. A woman stepped into the hallway, saw Leigh, and looked to Cal with a touch of hurt. She had the deep tan of the kids who worked out here all summer. Her hair was brown, with streaks too bright to be natural, tossed up into the loosest of buns. She wore a bikini top in orange and gold stripes, above periwinkle blue shorts. She came into the living room with an air of ownership, took the towel from the keyboard and lifted a backpack from the couch. She shot Leigh a side-eyed glance and swept out, leaving a waft of sunscreen.

"Who's that?" said Leigh.

One corner of Cal's mouth turned up. "Local acquaintance."

"Here I was feeling sorry for you."

"No. I... We just met on the beach Wednesday. It's nothing."

"Is she local local?"

"No, no. She works here. At Contretemps."

"Well did you get her name?"

"Emma Leah."

"That's two names," Leigh said. "Are you not sure which is right?"

"How'd you know that?"

"Know what?"

"That it's two names."

"What else would it be?"

"Well they sounded so natural together when I met her I thought it must be one word. E-M-I-L-E-A. I told her that's how it should be spelled, anyway."

"Oh, you're charming."

"You should hear her say it."

"Are you going to see her again?" Leigh pressed. "Is this a regular thing?"

"Relax, her boyfriend gets here tomorrow."

"So not exactly a healthy rebound."

"Oh, they're breaking up. And she's like twenty-two."

"I noticed."

"The boyfriend's not serious, she says, so what's the difference? If it were serious she wouldn't have told me about him at all."

"How did you pull this off?"

"I think we just happened to be what the other was looking for. It was clear from the beginning. Someone's dog ran up to us—to our same general area on the beach—and we both said, 'Hey, rascal,' to it at the same time."

"And that was it?"

"It just looked like a rascal."

"That sounds like magic. You should see her again."

"Well now you're here. You ruined it."

Leigh couldn't argue. She got up, walked to the kitchen. In the fridge was the usual loose collection of bottles left by guests who'd bought more than they could drink. She grabbed one and returned to the table.

They sat for a while, comfortable with the silence. Cal stirred the shreds of beer label.

Leigh pointed her bottle at the keyboard. "You get anything written?"

Cal didn't look up. "What do you mean?"

"I mean did you just bring that thing out here to impress the Emma Leahs or have you gotten any work done?"

"Real stuff or work stuff?"

Leigh rolled her eyes. "I mean have you been productive musically in any way."

"I can always write work stuff. I've given them more than they can use for the moment. It's shit, Leigh. It's background noise for people buying jeans. Peppy beat," he drummed it out on the table, "about five meaningless words in the simplest possible arrangement," he slapped a palm on the table, "done. They now have a glut of cardboard songs to make people overspend during the fall shopping season. I sit down and write work stuff any day of the week. I don't need to be here for that."

"I still love that phrase," Leigh said. "And I'm still not sure you made it up yourself."

"They don't hold much weight and they're totally disposable. Cardboard. It's just the truth."

"Is that what you're doing out here, though?"

"You've never been this interested in my work."

"I mean, did you mean for this to be a little creative retreat? Are you getting back to doing your own songs?"

"I'm never not doing that. But no, I didn't come out here to write tunes with my toes in the sand. I just thought I'd be out here for a week and it was possible something would come to mind." He grabbed the bottle with the most remaining label and began peeling it. "Is this a group-authored line of questioning?"

"No. I mean, they have been speculating. You must know that. For some of the guys, those not prone to introspection I guess—Reyna's a financial analyst for God's sake—it's a little weird to just come out here to be alone."

"Again, I didn't come to be alone. I came to be with everyone. It's our favorite vacation spot. Does that really need an explanation?"

"But it is alone."

"Whose fault is that? It's not weird of me to be here; it's weird of you all not to be."

"Well, your plan worked. You got your time to deal with your feelings. You got to bounce back," she cast her eyes toward the front door, "pretty well, I might add. And now we're going to have a weekend. It's going to be a good night. A good two nights."

"Yeah, has anyone left work yet?"

Leigh checked her phone. "Morse left. He's just stopping home to check on his baby."

Cal raised an eyebrow.

"He said he's coming," said Leigh.

"And yet..." Cal said.

Leigh asked, "Did you eat?"

"Today?"

She ignored this. "Yeah, let's go get a late lunch."

"There's something I want to show you first."

"We should get out of the house."

"Yeah, it's out of the house. Come on."

Cal got up to scour the living room and fished a pair of corduroy shorts from the floor. He began to kick out of his bathing suit before Leigh had cleared the room on her way to the bathroom. When she came back he was fully changed, standing there in a maroon t-shirt, a close fit to his skinny frame.

"I really feel like we stayed here before," Leigh said. "It's not just the layout. Something about the bathroom, the way the door gets stuck."

"You're not wrong."

"Did you book this place for some specific reason?"

Cal smirked.

"Wait," said Leigh, "is this Maggie's parents' place?"

Cal shrugged.

"How did you... Does she know?"

He shook his head.

"Do they know? How exactly did you book this? Did you use a fake name?"

"I didn't exactly book it."

"What? What if guests show up? What if Maggie drops in? Or her parents?"

"Relax," said Cal. "They're having some plumbing problems so it's off the market."

"Oh. Ew. Why didn't you tell me that before I went in there?"

"Yeah, it's fine. It's just a little slow. Not the kind of thing you can have random renters dealing with but it's fine."

"So you just came out here and grabbed the hidden key to your ex's family beach house?"

"Come on, we've got stuff to do."

---

Outside, the sun forced them both to squint and stagger to the walkway. Cal popped on a pair of aviators. They strolled along, Cal's sandals dragging, one of Leigh's suede mocs squeaking faintly. The pathways were empty. Those just arriving were busy filling the cabinets and sorting out bedrooms. The rest were at the beach.

The walk ended at a thoroughfare which ran the length of the island. Cal made for a row of golf carts parked at the opposite corner. He pulled off an already loose panel and brought together two exposed wires.

"I regret teaching you that," Leigh said.

He pulled a roll of electrical tape from the storage box and wrapped the connection. "Yeah, I can't remember why you did. Doesn't seem like a good idea."

"That was an emergency! We were eight miles from our room after our bikes got stolen."

"That's how tyrants always get their power, through moments of crisis. Anyway, these town council fucks will never know the difference. They come out here like once a month."

They settled in and Cal gunned it down the strip of cement.

"West?" said Leigh. "We never go west."

"This'll be worth it," said Cal. "I promise."

At a top speed of fifteen they rolled by the tall houses that looked upon the bay to their right. Once clear of Ocean Beach, in the unattended interstice between towns, wild bayberry shrubs and highbush blueberry reached for them from the shoulders. Cicadas hummed under the growth.

Cal took a hard curve to the left and then banked right to resume their direction. The path they were on had turned to sand, making for slower, rougher progress as the next little sea-village popped up around them. The new pace emphasized the quiet island remove of the cottages there.

"Welcome to Atlantique," he said.

"What, did you find a better ice cream shop?" said Leigh.

Cal looked ahead, never letting off the pedal.

Shrubs again. On one side the land folded down into a swale carpeted in beachheather and ivy.

Another town. This time Cal swung left and kept running south. The flora thinned and the ocean filled the horizon. They came to a wooden walkway curving out into the sand. Cal slowed, but just enough to cut to the right and then stab the cart up onto a dune until it would go no further.

"Was that supposed to be a trick?" Leigh said.

Cal leaned on the wheel with both arms. "Look at them all," he said, "just miserable."

Leigh followed his eyes to the shoreline. The beach was alive, not overly crowded, but groups had staked out territory from end to end. Boisterous voices on top of the surf. In bright colors children ran and laughed, their parents close by. Frisbees and volleyballs took their turns on the wind.

"Where?"

"Everywhere. Look how bored they all are."

"You want them to be doing body shots?" Leigh said. "This is the family beach. That's why we never came out this way. You know this."

"You know the name of this town, yes?"

"No, I haven't memorized the map of Fire Island."

"It's called Lonelyville."

"No, it's not."

"It is. Look it up."

"And this is your big statement? I need a word for maudlin and corny at the same time."

"Maybe. But like it or not, next time everyone comes out to the island, this is where they're going to end up, one way or another."

"Okay, sure. But so what? We change towns and go to bed a little earlier," said Leigh. "You might actually sell some of them on the next trip if you pitch it that way."

"But look around, out there at them," Cal gestured to the beach. "They're not with friends here. Just look. Those are cousins. And aunts. All the anxiety and stress of a big Thanksgiving dinner, only with an increased probability of skin cancer. At some point people feel they have to hang out with the people they never wanted to hang out with. It's like they think if they're not suffering just a little bit they're doing something wrong, even on vacation."

"You know, I went on a family vacation every summer, too. There's time for both. Is this what you've been doing all week?"

Cal took a breath in as if to start a speech and turned toward Leigh. His eyes widened.

"There she is!"

"Who?" said Leigh.

"The rascal," said Cal. "The dog from the other day."

A black dog had run out from a line of boulders and made a game of evading its owner.

They watched the chase for a moment together, laughing.

"Well you got the description right," said Leigh. "I want to take her home. But what's she doing all the way over here?"

"What do you mean?"

Leigh turned away from the dog. "Cal, did you pick that girl up from her family?"

"Oh, don't look at me like that. She wanted to get away from them anyway."

"Don't you see anything weird about that?"

"I guess someone should've been here to keep me from getting in trouble."

"Look at me. Is she really twenty-two?"

He looked at his fingernails. "Nineteen."

"Oh come on, Cal. She's not here now, is she? You're not coming out here to stalk her as she sits with her parents."

"Nah. She's at work."

"So what are you doing out here? What is this?"

He sat back. "Just taking in a view of the future."

"This is weird. You know it is. I'll call this a creative exercise and not a warning sign of your impending breakdown. But let's get out of here. I feel like a creep."

"I've seen your paintings," Cal said. "You are a creep."

She failed to hold in a laugh. "That's why I stopped," she said. "Now I process insurance claims for a living and coach basketball uptown. It's a good cover. Now come on. Our friends are going to be pissed if we're not ready for them when they get off the boat."

Cal hit the pedal, but the cart only clicked and whirred. He hopped out and gave it a kick. "Time to shoot the horse." He took off on foot and said over his shoulder, "Come on, let's hurry back to where I can guarantee you no one's on their way."

Leigh got out after him and caught up with a few long strides. They turned back along the same path they had come.

Once the beach was out of sight, Leigh said, "You know, if you wanted to come out here to get over Maggie you could say so. If you need to have a little freakout, that's fine. But you should just tell us. We can freak out with you."

"What's to get over? It's perfectly normal to have a four-year relationship end with a five-page handwritten letter telling you everything that's functionally wrong with you, immediately followed by a blind-copied email to who knows how many people to publicly announce the break-up."

"She's a fuckin' weirdo, Cal. What did you expect? We told you that at the beginning and you wouldn't listen."

"No. You guys just didn't want to let her into the fold."

"She wanted to start a nonprofit to give her used dressage gear to poor kids. She refused to eat at restaurants that didn't use tablecloths. She pretended to have that gluten allergy."

"That allergy was real. And none of this is helpful." He bent over to grab a twig and threw it off into the growth. An unfazed deer stood chewing leaves several feet off the path.

They let the cicadas carry the conversation. The air was oppressive between the tall shrubs, and their t-shirts grew damp with sweat.

They made it through the next town before Cal spoke again. "I blame Alanis."

"Tread carefully," Leigh said.

"She puts out one song that says, 'You ask how my day was,' and for every teenage girl that hears it, this all of a sudden becomes the standard measure of a good relationship," Cal said. "And she leaves it hanging out there, right before the chorus, so it lingers in your head."

He began to walk faster and directed his words more to the bushes than to Leigh. "But how about you know the person well enough that you don't need to ask? How about you can see it on their face? How about if there's something important, you trust the other person to talk about it and not wait to follow some script for generic human interaction?

"'How was your day?' 'How was your day?'" Cal went on. "Two strangers in passing, hoping for not much of an answer. And that's the measure. Those words in that order. Some romantic notion in a teenage girl's head that she won't let go of. But really, if that cliché needs to be asked in the first place, you're already not where you should be. It begets a one-word answer. That's how you talk to people you don't really know."

He sped ahead and then turned to backpedal, now talking right at her with a pleading look on his face. "But that's how she wanted to talk. All these formal conversation prompts. So I got nervous. I got on edge about it. When she gets home I just start saying everything that comes into my head. Every errant thought and trivial interaction. Just to fill the space. Because that's what she wants, right? And then apparently I overshare and am someone who tells boring stories that she can't see herself listening to any longer. But all I was really doing was trying to play along."

Cal slowed and fell into step beside her again.

"Maybe that was the problem," said Leigh. "If you feel like you have to play along, something's already off."

"You know," Cal said, "you're kind of the worst person to talk to about this. You don't know what it's like. You just surf around."

"Every breakup is hard. And fuck you. I like surfing around."

They didn't talk again until they got back to the empty golf cart parking space.

"Anyone here yet?" said Cal.

Leigh checked her messages and tightened her lips.

He raised an eyebrow. "See?"

Her phone made a dolphin noise, and Cal wrinkled his nose in response.

"Ugh, I hate that sound," he said.

"Ah! See? Reyna says Philip is in too now. He's going home to get some stuff, and then with Morse the three of them will be on a ferry, getting in at seven-twenty-three. See?" She held her phone up to Cal's nose.

He shoved her hand away. "Yeah, yeah. Let's go drink at the house."

"Nope." She directed him by the shoulders. "We're staying out. Happy hour. Then we can get a late dinner when everyone gets here. I already know I'm going to order Portnoy's fettuccini, and get a nice base of carbs for dancing until four."

Cal leaned back in protest and she shoved him at an angle toward the stretch of waterfront bars.

"You know I spent three hours on the beach every morning," he said. "There's no need to keep me out of the house."

"I know. But I want a Rocket Fuel. We can sit at Shearwaters and watch our asshole friends come in on the boat."

The noise picked up as they approached the clustered restaurants. People who had washed off the beach before dinner filled the thoroughfare. Shearwaters appeared small from the front, a low white hut, but it expanded a half-level down once inside, with a wraparound deck overlooking the bay and the dock that Leigh had come in on. She asked the hostess to seat them at the corner closest to it, and ordered a round on the way to the table. A man sat on a stool in the opposite corner with an acoustic guitar, playing something familiar. Leigh and Cal sat quietly, drinking slowly and watching the water.

"Do you remember the first time we ate here?" Leigh asked Cal.

"No," he said.

"I think you're lying," she said. "We caught an early dinner. We came out just to see what the beach was like and were ready to go home. But while we sat here the boatfulls just kept pouring in. The shops closed and the bars got louder. We went out sweating sunscreen and wearing flipflops. I had a long tanktop on over a bathing suit, and Philip had that shirt with the giant hole in it."

"Yeah, I got it now."

"Well, it's still happening. And in a little while our friends are going to walk down the ramp. The only difference now is we can actually afford our drinks. Speaking of..."

She flagged down a passing server and ordered another round. Cal added iced tea. Just as the waitress turned away he caught her. "Oh," he said, "and peanuts."

With her face to the menu Leigh said, "She was checking you out. Did you catch her name?"

"You mean that big green nametag? Yeah."

"A girl named Aria. In the place you've come to write music. That's the kind of coincidence you used to care about."

"I'm not really into that anymore. And I'm not really here to write music."

"I know."

Aria delivered the drinks and a heaping basket of unshelled peanuts and disappeared again.

"What's with the iced tea?" said Leigh.

"I've been out here a week," said Cal. "I had to find a way to drink something that wasn't alcohol. And it's really good here." He slid it to the outer edge of the table where its dark contents caught the late sun. A plump quarter lemon floated at the top. A sprig of mint leaned out.

Cal dug into the peanuts, splitting them with his thumbs and tossing the shells over the rail to bob in the water. The bay was calm.

"I can't do this anymore," he said suddenly. He got up from the table.

Leigh started to move, but saw that he was going for the guitarist. Cal pulled out his wallet and leaned in close. The man shook his head at first, but Cal kept talking, finally getting the man to accept a bill. As Cal walked back to the table, the man set the guitar on its stand and rested his hands in his lap.

"Did you put in a request?" Leigh asked.

"Yeah," said Cal, "for silence."

"You didn't."

"People can pay him for songs, right? I'm paying him not to play. It's better for everybody. That set wasn't going anywhere good." Cal popped a peanut. "It's gangrene for the ears."

Leigh bristled. "You know, those moments when you feel at ease and you think you're being your true self, you can be really horrible."

"No one here wants to listen to a bunch of clunkers from decades ago."

"It's familiar stuff for a crowd. It's harmless."

"It's not harmless. And even if it were, we should ask for better. We shouldn't all be happy with whatever's on the radio. Liking those songs isn't a matter of taste, it's a matter of comfort. It's like sitting in your own tepid bathwater."

"Still a snob."

Confusion flitted over Cal's face. "You're right, I shouldn't say it like that. It's just, it's stagnant. You have to venture out. I listened to a lot of new stuff this week. And I was able to get something going."

"I knew it!" she said. "Tell me about it. Do you have a title?"

"It's called, 'I Used to Know When to Be Quiet.'"

"I'm thinking that's not exactly a fun summer anthem."

"It's tight. A real gut punch of a song."

"People don't want to be punched in the gut," Leigh said. "They want to drive with the windows down, or hum something while they're cooking dinner."

"I have to admit I don't love the new stuff," Cal continued. "Some of it might be good. But it's almost worse to listen to the new good stuff. It makes me wistful about feelings I don't get to have anymore. And at the same time it reminds me I'm out of touch, because there's just something they're doing with instrumentation and production right now that annoys me and I can't quite connect with it. The whole experience is like I'm looking through a window at food rather than eating it." He threw a handful of shells over the edge.

"You realize," said Leigh, picking up Cal's iced tea, "oh, that is good. You realize that this—that distance—is you making it harder on yourself. And on your friends. You're choosing to be critical instead of comfortable."

"Maybe," he said. "But when I talk about comfort like that, I don't mean it in an insulting way. I'm jealous of it. It's fine to like bad music. But I think comfort to some people is a rut. And that—hiding in your own rut—is just as much a way of distancing other people. It's just more acceptable for some reason. It's equating 'busy' with 'good' in one breath. It's spending a tense week at the beach with your family. And up until recently I believed that we, our friends, knew better than that. But it's already happening. Every time someone has a kid, we lose a friend."

"That's a fucked up, selfish thing to say. You know that. Right?"

"No, because I'm not taking anything away from anybody else. I'm still around whenever they want me to be. And I'd like to sit around with anyone's baby and have them throw up on my shoulder or whatever. But no one's down for that. The impression they give is that in order to do one thing, they have to leave the other thing behind. And that other thing is me."

"You've been out here too long," she said.

"I called Morse for weeks when things were going down with Maggie, and I think he sent me one text," said Cal. "Other than that it was like I didn't exist."

"You know he'll come back around once they fall into a rhythm with the baby."

"Nope, it never swings back the other way. Call him right now and ask if we can pretend his kid doesn't exist for one night."

"You're terrible."

"And you're laughing. You know I'm right."

"He's on his way here. Ask him yourself."

"Yeah, sure," said Cal. "Anyway, to me, real comfort is kind of a high ideal. I'm talking about something that is the greatest aspiration for a relationship, that ease of being with each other. I didn't have it with Maggie, but things were good enough that I was just beginning to come around to the idea that maybe I didn't need it. Maybe I was wrong to look for it. And just when I gave up on my own ideal, she took off."

"And then you decided to illegally crash at her parents' beach house for a week. That's appropriate revenge I guess." She finished off her drink. "But, how did you know the plumbing was bad?"

"What?"

"They don't have a website for the place. They rent it by word of mouth. How did you know they were having a problem that would keep them from renting it out?"

"Did I tell you my new theory about what made Whitney Houston such an appealing listen?"

"Cal."

"There's pain in every song she recorded, because she feels she doesn't fit in anywhere. I've written a lot of it down. I think I could publish it as an essay."

"How did you know something was wrong with the house?"

He flicked a couple of shells to flutter off on the wind.

"Tell me you didn't come out here before now to sabotage their plumbing."

He broke into a full grin for the first time all day. "Do you know how many socks you can flush down a toilet?"

"That's way worse. You should have told us that. We can't stay there." She grabbed her phone. "What if they send a plumber out?"

"Don't text the others. They're not coming anyway."

"They're on their way. All day they said they were coming."

He swept his hand out across the bay. "And yet..."

"Their boat gets in soon."

"Okay, ask any of them if they've left yet."

She fired off a few messages and her phone stayed quiet.

"So when Whitney came up—"

"I'm sure they're in a dead spot on the water," said Leigh. "They'll be here. Then we're booking a hotel, if there are any rooms open."

"She came up as a church singer, but she was too big for that. Then she gets swept up in the business of music, and she knows they're just trying to package her for a white audience. She is rootless, and peerless at the same time. She never felt whole again."

Leigh was staring at her text app, willing a message to come in.

"My point is," Cal went on, "who needs that? I don't want a hit song anymore. I just want to hang out with everybody. Only I can't tell which is harder to achieve now."

"You didn't have to commit a felony to do it. Here comes the boat. You can see it."

They sat silently and watched the ferry draw closer. The peanut shells bobbed on the water below their feet.

"I guess we don't have to tell them how you scored the house right away," she said. "Maybe we'll save it for Sunday morning."

The boat docked. The ramp came down, filled up, then emptied. There were no familiar faces.

"They said they were coming," Leigh said.

"And yet..."

"And yet."