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Or you can just open the wine.” Caroline searched the cupboards, finding a can of marinated mushrooms and a jar of artichoke hearts to drain and add to the tray of cheese and crackers, baby carrots and Granny Smith slices she’d scrounged from the refrigerator. Little party toothpicks and napkins from one of the hutch drawers, leftovers from her wedding to Chuck, completed the spread.
    Rid whistled. “Not bad. Wicked good, in fact.”
    The beer they’d had in the truck first. Candles on the mantelpiece, candles on the coffee table, the tray of food between them, the wine glasses refilled and then refilled again, the afghan knit by Caroline’s grandmother around both their backs, the wind and rain beating on the windows. His hand on her thigh in sympathy when she got teary about Eleanor dying. Later when Caroline tried to figure out why this time, this man—Rid, of all unlikely choices—she catalogued these elements and was ashamed that she’d just had too much to drink and succumbed.
    No place felt clear of baggage except the floor, which had been Caroline’s choice, so they’d started on the braided rug and the good green quilt she’d dragged out, but it hadn’t been long before they agreed they were both too old to lie on the floor and pretend they were comfortable. Rid had tried to lead her to the hospital bed, but she’d resisted. Her own room had a narrow twin. They ended up in the big bed in Eleanor’s room, no longer in use. My parents’ bed , she thought afterward.
    Later, candlelight flickered against the darkness and his fingertips lightly circled one of her breasts as they sipped the last of the wine. Maybe it was the afterglow of candlelight, sex, and wine, but she found herself talking more than she’d been willing to in years.
    “Funny how we’re both back where we were born,” she said. “Did you feel like you had to? I mean, Mom’s cancer is what brought me back, but I won’t be staying after…. Did you come back because you didn’t have any place else—or because your Dad needed you—or…?”
    “Turned out Dad needed me, but I was back before then. It was weird, ya know? Dad put my name on his grant when I was a kid, even though I swore I didn’t want to work the flats. It was like he knew I wasn’t going to do anything else. ’Course I gave him plenty reason to think that, too. Wonder how many times I got suspended from school?” He laughed. His hand was square, callused. A violent offshore wind was picking up sand and flinging it against the windows; tomorrow they’d be milky with salt, and cleaning them would be Caroline’s chore.
    “I never understood how that worked, the grants, I mean.”
    “There’s only so much space in the harbor and a certain amount is reserved for picking in the wild—where the public can go. The sea farmers get their leases—same thing as a grant—from the town, see, and there’s only so many. When they’re gone, they’re gone. By Dad putting my name on his grant, that meant that if—or when—he died, it would pass to me. It meant I’d always have a way to make a living. I never knew why Dad wanted to do it. God, you break your back, and.…”
    “Yeah,” Caroline murmured.
    “Well sure, there’s a million problems. Your oysters get diseased, your nets get fouled, the price of seed goes sky high just when you have the least spat yourself, the flies eat you alive or you’re wet and freezing, your bull rake breaks, your dingy leaks, somebody underbids your best account and they never heard of loyalty. Whatever.”
    “Sounds like a great life.” She was sarcastic, softening it with a smile. But what she wanted to ask was why on earth would anyone—no, why would you —do this if you had any other choice? “There must be something else you could do,” she said instead.
    “Well of course. I’m not a complete loser. Or, in spite of the fact that I am a complete loser, yes, I could do something else. Don’t wanna.”
    Caroline