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that.”
    “Brett isn’t you. Brett doesn’t value anyone or anything. Not even himself.”
    We brooded for a moment.
    “Well, he’ll get his,” Jen said. “He’ll probably die of AIDS.”
    “Jesus, Jen. Don’t say that. What a thing to wish on anybody.”
    “I guess I’m learning some things about myself this summer. I guess I’m not a good sport about having my life ruined. Mine and Vince’s.”
    “I’m sorry, Jen,” I said at last.
    She started to cry again.
     
    * * * * *
     
    I almost skipped the annual beach party. Every year the colony kicks off summer with a barbecue in the cove. When I was a kid I looked forward to s’mores and ghost stories by the sea, but I would have given it a miss this year if Adam and Brett hadn’t walked over to fetch me.
    “You’re not ready?” Adam asked as I opened the door.
    “No, I—”
    “Shake a leg, scout,” Brett said exuberantly. He raised his hands over his head, snapping his fingers and shaking his hips. “Time to par-tay!”
    I finished polishing my glasses and slid them back on. Adam was frowning at me. In black denims and black turtleneck he looked like a French film star. A stern French film star. Though he had been Brett’s age when he moved to Steeple Hill, he had never seemed as young or free as Brett. Despite his sense of humor, Adam was a serious person. Serious and self-contained. I wondered what, besides sex, he and Brett had in common. Something had to hold them together for two years.
    “I think he’s in a stupor,” Brett observed. “He definitely needs some fresh air.”
    Brett wore artfully torn jeans and a baby-blue cashmere pullover that seemed a trifle overdone for beach blankets and weenies.
    “I lost track of time,” I lied, rubbing my prickly jaw. “Go on ahead and I’ll meet you there.”
    “We’ll wait,” Adam said.
    “And don’t bother shaving,” Brett ordered. “Five o’clock shadow is sexy on you .”
    Adam shot him a look. “Grab a jacket, Kyle,” he said to me. “It’s cold by the water.”
    I wished to hell he would stop thinking of me as a sickly child. Neither he nor Brett wore jackets. I opened my mouth. They waited expectantly. I tried to think of a good excuse, but nothing came readily to mind. With a not very gracious mutter I ducked back inside, dragged a sweatshirt over my T-shirt, flicked a comb through my hair, splashed on some cologne and shoved my feet into tennis shoes.
    Adam leaned against the porch post, staring out at the meadow as I rejoined them. Brett perched on the railing, twirling a red rose. Something in their silence struck me.
    There’s a painting by Jacob Van Ruisdael called The Jewish Graveyard . Beautiful and somber, it captures the same ominous mood that I felt that evening observing them in the dying light.
    “Ready?” Adam asked me brusquely as Brett got to his feet.
    “As I’ll ever be.”
    Brett slipped his arm around my waist and hugged me. “Mmm. You smell delicious. What is that?”
    “Soap.”
    “No. It’s sandalwood. It’s fabulous.”
    Adam turned on heel, leaving Brett and me to trail along behind him. I watched him though I tried not to: his carriage erect and graceful, shoulders broad, back leanly muscled. He disappeared down the stairs leading to the beach.
    Brett nipped my ear playfully—then chuckled at my scowling recoil. I pulled away from him, speeding up after Adam.
    Down in the cove a bonfire shot red embers into the last cadmium ribbons of the sunset. We were the last of our crowd to arrive; I was surprised to see Jen and Vince already settled around the fire. They were never on time for anything. Vince was drinking a Dos Equis. At a glance it wasn’t his first. Jen and Micky wrapped cobs of corn in foil, talking quietly to each other.
    “There you are,” Micky greeted us. “We were about to send out Search and Rescue.”
    Vince raised his bottle in a toast and then completed the gesture, chugging down beer. As he lowered his arm, Brett moved