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afternoon if the weather was good. Blow some of the cobwebs out of the brain.”
    Patsy had a sudden vision of a stretch of empty white sand, silent but for the sound of gulls and of waves crashing against the jetties. “The beach,” she repeated. “That sounds marvelous.” She looked at him. “Do you mind if I come too?”
    “In that outfit?”
    She looked down at her very expensive silk blouse and linen pants. “Why not?”
    He grinned. “Why not, indeed?”
    They were not quite the only ones on the beach when they arrived nearly forty-five minutes later. There was a group of teenagers playing Frisbee, and a young family whose children were digging industriously in the sand, Michael and Patsy walked along the waterline. Michael wore sneakers and Patsy was barefoot—she had left her fashionable shoes in Michael’s car. She had left her jacket as well and was wearing a sweatshirt of Michael’s over her silk blouse. They strolled for a while in silence and then Michael said, “How can anyone live out of reach of the ocean?”
    Patsy looked up at him in surprise. “I was just thinking the same thing.”
    He smiled a little. “Those kids back there reminded me of us.”
    “I know. We went from digging sandcastles, to playing Frisbee, to picnics after the prom. Really, when you think of it, half our childhood was spent on the beach.”
    “Mmm. One of these days I’m going to buy a beach house. With a big porch so I can look out at the water first thing in the morning and last thing before I go to bed at night.”
    “That sounds lovely,” Patsy said dreamily. She inhaled deeply. “The smell of the salt. There’s nothing like it.”
    “Remember the time your father took us all fish ing out of Freeport?” he asked.
    Patsy started to laugh. “Do I ever! Sally was the only one who wasn’t sick.”
    He chuckled. “First you’d heave over the side, then me, then you ...”
    “Poor Daddy.”
    “And Sally, the stinker, kept on catching fish after fish.”
    They had come to one of the jetties, and Patsy rested on a flat rock. It was warm from the sun. She looked up at him as he stood over her. “I guess we’re creatures of the land.”
    “I guess so.” He sat down next to her, his shoul der almost touching hers.
    “It doesn’t seem so long ago, does it?” she asked softly. “And yet it’s vanished—that world of our childhood. Mother and Daddy are in Arizona, your folks are dead, the houses are sold.” She looked up. He was very close to her.
    “You sound awfully melancholy.” His eyes were on the ocean; his profile looked set and stern.
    On impulse she rested her face against his shoul der. She could feel the hardness of muscle under her cheek. She closed her eyes. “I feel melancholy,” she murmured.
    There was silence and after a minute she opened her eyes. He was looking down at her, an inscruta ble expression in his eyes. “You are a menace, do you know that?” he said.
    Patsy sat up. “A menace?”
    “Unquestionably.”
    She stared. “What do you mean?” She recognized the expression in his eyes now—it was amusement. “Stop looking so smug,” she said tartly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “I know you don’t. You’ve always gotten off per fectly unscathed, with no idea of the wreckage you’ve left behind.”
    “You sound like the Delphic Oracle. Are you naturally like this or do you like being enigmatic?” Her voice was too obviously calm.
    He grinned and stood up. “Come on. I came here for a walk, not to sit around on rocks being lazy.” He started down the beach and Patsy had to break into a jog to catch up with him. It didn’t occur to her that this was probably the first time in her life that she had ever chased after a man.
    “What do you mean, ‘wreckage’?” she asked after they had walked in silence for a while. She glanced at him swiftly and saw the corners of his smile. “I don’t go for married men, I’ll have you know,” she added