Off to defend the lesbian cheetahs? Ursula asked recently. Or is today Ugandan dwarves?

You’re offensive, Bess said. If anyone knew what you were really like, no one would vote for you.

Bess! Jake said, but she had already slammed out of the condo.

Ursula tossed it off with a laugh. Let her go, she said. I hated my mother at that age too. It’s natural.

“What if we went out tonight after dinner?” Jake says. “What if we went to the Chicken Box for old times’ sake?”

“I’d love to,” Mallory says. “But we can’t. We dodged a bullet, Jake. I thought for sure Ursula would put you on lockdown and I’d be alone this weekend.”

“She seemed unconcerned,” Jake says. Mallory told him about the whole situation with Leland’s Letter and Ursula calling Cooper. Mallory found it strange that Ursula hadn’t simply confronted Jake, but that’s because Mallory doesn’t understand the architecture of his marriage. Ursula doesn’t deal with the issue head-on partly because she can’t summon the emotional energy and partly because she’s afraid if she pulls the wrong block, the whole Jenga tower will fall. A failing marriage is a death knell in politics; Ursula will maintain at any cost.

Jake isn’t thrilled that Cooper knows what’s going on, although Cooper covering for them has bought them some freedom. Why not enjoy it? “We’re so old now,” he says. “We won’t know anyone at the Box.”

“We might, though.”

“Let’s do something different, then,” he says. “How about if after dinner we take a bottle of wine down to the docks and drink it onboard the Greta? It’ll be nice to be out on the water. We can sit on the bow. No one will see us.”

Mallory purses her lips. “Mmm, I don’t know about changing up our routine. We do things the way we do them because they work.”

“No one is going to see us on the bow of your boat, Mal.”

She huffs. “Fine. But when we’re walking, stay six paces behind me with your hands in your pockets and wear a hat.”

Jake laughs. “Deal.”

They park Mallory’s Jeep downtown and walk—Mallory first, Jake following—past the Gazebo, Straight Wharf, and Cru and onto the docks. It’s fun to be out at night among people enjoying the last weekend of summer. Jake is nervous, which only heightens his pleasure; he’s drunk too much wine, probably, and Mallory has a second bottle in her bag. They may have to sleep on the boat and sneak off at the crack of dawn.

They come to the gatekeeper. Beyond a certain point, it’s boat owners and guests only. There’s a teenager with strawberry-blond hair curling out from beneath his University of Miami hat like lettuce peeking out of a hamburger bun. Jake nearly turns back. Mallory knows every teenager on this island. She’s the English teacher—the best, the most popular. Any one of her students could whip his phone out of his pocket to snap a pic of the dude Miss Blessing is hanging out with and then post it on Snapchat. Someone else would then do face-recognition. First the high school and then the entire island would know that Miss Blessing was seen at the docks at nine o’clock at night with Jake McCloud, husband of Ursula de Gournsey.

Is he being paranoid? Probably.

“I’m on the Greta,” Mallory says to the kid. “Slip one oh six.”

“’Kay,” the teenager says.

They walk on. Jake feels so relieved that he reaches for Mallory’s hand, and she swats it away, as she should. He grabs her by the shoulders and she elbows him in the ribs. They’re at slip 100. The Greta is three boats ahead on the right. They’re almost in the clear.

A man and a woman step off one of the huge yachts on the left. The man is big and burly. Mallory and Jake have to move aside so the couple can pass.

“Evening,” Jake says.

The man stops. His weight makes the deck boards creak.

“Mallory?” he says.

Mallory turns. “Oh!” she cries as though someone goosed her. “Bayer?” She moves tentatively in the man’s direction but then seems to think better of it and offers half a wave. “Hello there. Good to see you.” She has clearly decided against a big reunion with Bayer—talk about an appropriate name; the guy is huge and hairy—and Jake is relieved.

Onward, he thinks. But he’s aware that the moment hasn’t quite ended. Bayer is staring at them—at Jake now—while the woman, a slim brunette with an armful of gold bangles, is focused on her phone.

“You,” Bayer says to Jake. “Do I know you?”

Jake isn’t going to risk looking this guy in the eye, so he checks out the boat the two just came off of: Dee Dee. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Are you sure?” Bayer’s voice presses.

“He always thinks he knows people,” the brunette says. She slips her phone into her bag. When she reaches for Bayer’s hand, her bracelets jingle. “Let’s go, honey. Reservation at nine thirty.”

Jake says, “Have a good night.”

“Yes,” Bayer says. “You too.”

Mallory shoots forward like a nervous three-year-old filly out of the gates at the Derby. She practically runs down the dock to slip 106 and leaps onto the boat like it’s about to sail away. Jake can’t help himself; he laughs.

Clearly, she’s spooked. She takes a key out of the back pocket of her white capris, unlocks the padlock, and pulls open the door to the cabin. She descends into the dark.

Jake hears her setting the wine bottle down, then rummaging through a drawer. By the time he’s beside her, she has yanked out the cork.

“Who was that?”

“Bayer,” she says. “Bayer Burkhart.” She takes a deep drink straight from the bottle.

Bayer Burkhart; the name rings a bell. Or is he imagining this? “Who is he?”

“Somebody that I used to know,” Mallory says. “Wow, that was weird. Freaky, even. I haven’t seen him in twenty years.”

“Do you know who the woman was?”

“No, but I have a guess.” Mallory goes to the little cabinet for glasses. “When I knew him, he lived in Newport.”

Newport. Something is definitely familiar about the name and Newport, but Jake can’t quite grasp it.

“Were you and Bayer Burkhart involved?” Jake asks. He’s suddenly aflame with jealousy.

“I suppose,” Mallory says. “Briefly. One summer. Though it’s funny—when I was looking at him just now, I couldn’t dredge up one pleasant memory.”

“Good,” Jake says, and Mallory hands him a glass of wine.

It’s Sunday night, post–Chinese food, post-movie, post–fortune cookies, post-lovemaking. These are bittersweet hours—the last eight or ten before he heads back to the airport. It feels worse this year, but why?

Mallory has fallen asleep and Jake resents her for it, though over the years, he knows, he’s usually the one who falls asleep first while she lies awake contemplating the torturous nature of their relationship.

Mallory is breathing into the soft down of her pillow. The new mattress is yielding but firm; it feels like it’s made of fondant icing. Jake runs his hands down Mallory’s back. She has such soft skin that he makes it a point to touch her any chance he gets. This time tomorrow he’ll be back in Washington. Bess and Ursula won’t return to DC for another couple of days so he’ll have some time to decompress, shake the sand out of his shoes, get his head back where it needs to be—family, work, raising money for the CFRF. This all sounds fine and it will be fine. The goring pain he feels right now at the thought of leaving Mallory will subside, bit by bit, until at last it’s bearable—and then, in April or May, the dull melancholy that settles like a blanket of dust over his heart will turn, almost instantly, into anticipation.