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happen to speak to my mother for any reason, couldyou please not mention that Meg and I went out there?”
    “Done,” he agreed, after a moment's pause. “Attorney-client privilege.”
    When Peter had hung up the phone, Meg asked, “Are you always going to keep this visit a secret from your mother?”
    “I don't know about always,” Peter replied. “But twenty or thirty years might not be a bad idea.”
    On Saturday morning, instead of going their separate ways as they had of late, Meg made sandwiches in the kitchen and Peter laid out a road map of Long Island on the dining table. “Looks like we just take the expressway out to Syosset, then Route 1 to Passet Bay. Huntington Road's supposed to intersect it.”
    “Just tell me when and where to turn,” said Meg, cheerfully, as she dropped the sandwiches into the paper bag.
    “Well, actually I thought I'd have you tell me when to turn.” He paused. “I think I'll drive.”
    Meg tried not to seem too surprised; he hadn't driven since the accident. “Okay by me,” she said brightly. “I'll navigate, then.”
    Peter didn't wear his sling out to the car but tossed it into the back seat in case he needed it later. He pulled the seat belt down around him and, jamming the key into the ignition, hit the gas pedal too hard; the gears made a terrible grinding noise. Meg noticed his left hand tightly clench, and then release, the steering wheel.
    “Why don't you take Asbury Avenue out of town?” Meg suggested.
    They both knew why—Asbury wasn't the most direct route but taking it would allow them to circumvent the scene of the accident. Though Peter didn't say anything, at the end of the block he made a left turn, toward Asbury.

    For the first few miles, he continued to hit everything a bit too abruptly—the gas, the brakes, the gear shift. Meg kept up a steady stream of what she hoped would be distracting conversation while looking resolutely out the side window. Once they'd actually reached the expressway entrance, Peter seemed to relax a little.
    “They did a good job of fixing the car,” he said. “Runs fine.”
    “I think it runs better than it used to.”
    “Are you suggesting that we should have accidents more often?” he asked, and Meg, relieved to find that he could make any sort of joke at all on the subject, said, “I don't know if I'd go that far.” Peter reached over and, with one hand, gently stroked her cheek. Meg closed her eyes and, bending her head, captured the hand between her cheek and shoulder. She needed to feel this warmth, to preserve for a few seconds the tenderness of the gesture; since the night of Byron's party, she hadn't even attempted to make love with Peter. She couldn't bear the thought of another failure; from now on, she'd decided, she would wait until Peter himself took the initiative, until he voluntarily came to her. But still it was hard to wait.
    At the Syosset exit, they pulled off the expressway and followed the Route 1 artery past gas stations, carpet warehouses, and home decorating centers until the road narrowed to two lanes, lined on both sides by trees, small scruffy fields, the occasional vegetable stand. It was another warm and sunny spring day, and the breeze from the open windows blew Meg's hair into a slow, golden swirl around her shoulders. Peter had replaced his wire-rims with a pair of prescription sun glasses.
    “I think we're technically in Passet Bay around now,” said Meg. “We ought to see Huntington Road pretty soon.”

    “No sooner said than done,” said Peter, pointing with one finger to a small green and white sign mounted on a cement post just ahead. Canopied by tall, leafy trees, Huntington Road veered off Route 1 at a slight angle. Peter slowed down as they read the names and numbers of the mailboxes that appeared every few hundred yards along the road; the houses, some of which could be seen through the trees and behind the carefully laid-out shrubberies, ranged from stately old homes