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at which there seems to be a lot of seaweed. When they turn around, Tullus is panting hard, the leash less taut, their pace slower.
    "I was just wondering," Jeff says. "Can you really quantify emotional development?"
    "Can you make politics scientific?" Sydney asks.
    Jeff bends down and lets Tullus go. The dog, unleashed, heads for the water, chasing a gull. When he comes out, he shakes himself, spraying droplets everywhere.
    "Thing I love about dogs," Jeff says, "they're so predictable."
    As they near the house, Sydney notices that families have begun to spread out along the beach. They pass a woman reading in a low plastic chair. Three small children are digging a hole at her feet.
    "When is Victoria coming?" Sydney asks.
    "Vicki," Jeff says. "I'm picking her up at eleven-fifteen at the bus station."
    Sydney makes a slight adjustment to her mental portrait of Victoria. Someone willing to take a bus.
    "Have you known her long?" Sydney asks.
    "All my life. Her family has been coming here for years. I think I first became aware of her in sailing class when I was six or seven. We used to rent cottages then."
    "And you've been together all that time?" Sydney asks, astonished.
    "No," Jeff says, laughing. "We met again last year at a fund-raiser in Boston. She works for the Jimmy Fund. It's a cancer foundation."
    "I know what the Jimmy Fund is," Sydney says, and even she can hear the slight churlishness in her voice. She feels distracted by the constantly shifting portrait of Victoria--who rides a bus, who is really called Vicki, who took sailing lessons at six, who works for a nonprofit organization--as if a crime artist kept adjusting a computer image based on a witness's testimony.
    "I'll bet she gets great seats at Fenway," Sydney offers, consciously lightening her tone.
    "Best part of her job," Jeff says.
    Jeff calls to Tullus, who joins them at the foot of the wooden steps.
    "Now he'll want a treat," Jeff explains. "He thinks he's just taken us for a walk."
    Sydney climbs the steps with sandy feet, aware of Jeff just inches behind her.
    The announcement of Victoria's arrival can be heard throughout the house. Raised voices. A call. A greeting. Sydney is contentedly hulling strawberries in the kitchen. Mr. Edwards is reading the directions for a new panini maker recently delivered by Federal Express. Sydney likes the small frown of concentration between his eyes. Mr. Edwards sets the pamphlet on the counter; Sydney abandons the strawberries in the colander. They walk into the hallway to see what the commotion is all about, even though they both know perfectly well what the commotion is all about.
    Victoria, with long, dark, wavy hair, stands just inside the front door. Over her shoulder is a white canvas bag with leather trim. She has on a pale summer skirt, cut on the bias, the material thin. A tiny aqua sweater with pearl buttons is casually draped over a tank top. At the ends of her long, tanned legs are white flip-flops with a jewel at each big toe. Her nose is aquiline, almost masculine, her mouth bare. It is apparent immediately that Victoria is possessed of both gravity and beauty, a winning combination. Sydney wonders where the woman is sleeping.
    Victoria embraces Mrs. Edwards. An elaborate and gushing introduction is made to Wendy and Art, who seem to have caught a kind of contagious beaming from Mrs. Edwards. Victoria extends one long, straight bare arm, the wrist slightly bent, seemingly drawing the other person toward her. It is a marvelous gesture, one Sydney admires.
    Sydney waits, arms crossed against her chest. Mrs. Edwards says, "You remember Julie." Victoria gives the girl a quick hug and in doing so catches Sydney's eye. Sydney smiles and steps forward, her own hand extended.
    "I'm Sydney Sklar," she says.
    "Sydney's here for Julie," Mrs. Edwards says quickly, an extraordinary lapse in manners that Mr. Edwards immediately seeks to redress.
    "I hope for all of us," he says.
    Mrs. Edwards appears not to have