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Christina. At this late hour, however, the bouncer had unlocked the gate that opened to a flight of steps down to the beach, and they escaped that way. As they trudged away across the sand gleeful cheers and the sound of many more bodies splashing into the pool followed them. Terry had moved to the other side of Valentine and once more slipped his arm about the bartender’s waist. Clarisse carefully disengaged herself and moved off a few feet.
    They walked toward home down the ribbon of hard wet sand left by the retreating tide. “This is probably a lot more pleasant than Commercial Street right now,” said Valentine. The houses to their left were black tumbled boxes, with only here and there a lighted window or muffled laughter to indicate that the boxes were inhabited. The early morning breeze lifted Clarisse’s hair from her shoulders and dried Valentine and Terry O’Sullivan’s glistening faces.
    â€œIsn’t this romantic?” said Terry O’Sullivan quietly, and squeezed Valentine. “I feel just like Jeanne Moreau in Jules and Jim .”
    â€œActually that would be my role,” said Clarisse.
    â€œOh, look!” cried Terry O’Sullivan, pointing, “it’s the morning star!”
    â€œThat’s a commuter plane,” said Valentine. “Did you lose a contact too?”
    Clarisse glanced over her shoulder. The sky was lightening behind them. She made them turn and look.
    Crossing the municipal parking lot, they nodded friendlily to the fishermen who were already on the way to their boats at the end of the wharf. Terry whispered something to Valentine, and a moment later Valentine in a resigned voice said, “Clarisse, we’re going to hurry along. You take your time, and I’ll be up before you have to go to work.”
    Clarisse groaned. “I didn’t need to be reminded. You two go on, but remember, Terry,” she smiled, “no blood, permanent disfigurement, or toys with combined dimensions of more than thirty-six inches.” She waved them on, and the two men took off toward Commercial Street.
    Clarisse continued along the beach. She removed her embroidered slippers, lifted the hem of her gown and walked ankle deep in the cool water. The sky was losing its inky blackness, and behind her was a luminous cobalt. Gulls’ cries growing sharply louder cut the morning stillness.
    Coming upon a mass of seaweed half in the water and half out, she caught sight of a large starfish lying among the thick greenish-blue tendrils. She wondered if she ought to throw it back into the bay, but couldn’t remember whether a starfish could live out of the water for any length of time. She also couldn’t recall if they stung, or pricked—or just lay there. When she nudged her foot in the seaweed tangled about it and the starfish did not move, the animal—or was it a plant?—took on the character of a souvenir. Clarisse leaned down to examine it more carefully, closing the eye that had lost its contact lens.
    It was no starfish, but a human hand.
    Then she saw the bare arm beneath the seaweed and the mound she supposed was the rest of the body.
    Clarisse stood sharply, and looked all about her. She saw no one. There were only gulls at her back.
    She put on her slippers, and walked hurriedly across the sand toward the center of town.

PART II
    The Lost and Lonely

Chapter Six

    V ALENTINE SAT BLEARILY at the kitchen table, one hand wrapped about a blue porcelain mug of strong black coffee and the other resting in his lap. His fingers repeatedly wound and unwound the sash of his green seersucker robe. He lit a cigarette, pulling closer the already butt-laden ashtray. The window beside him was raised several inches admitting the balmy morning breeze from the courtyard beyond. Rampant ivy spilled through, and he regarded the seeking tendrils balefully. Poor Richard’s Buttery was serving Sunday brunch, and he could make out the faint