She broke. Sobbing, tears, she felt raw, exposed, and human. Before the e-mail had arrived in her in-box (subject line: Hello), it had been months since Dabney had cried. The death of their dog, Henry. And before that it had been years—tears of joy, Agnes’s graduation from high school, again from college.

“You are still so beautiful,” Clen said. “Exactly as I pictured you. You look just as you did when you stood on the wharf as my ferry pulled away.”

“Stop it!” Dabney screamed. She was shocked at the volume and pitch of her voice, shocked that her voice worked at all. But really, how dare he start out by conjuring the worst day of her life! He had been standing at the railing of the Steamship on a blindingly blue September day. He had waved at Dabney, shouting out, I love you, Cupe! I love you! Dabney had been unable to shout or wave back. She had stood still as a post, mute with sorrow and fear and regret—and anger at herself for the weakness and failings of her psyche. She could not go with him. She felt as perhaps the first Dabney—Dabney Margaret Wright—had felt when she stood in nearly the same spot and watched her husband, Warren, set sail on the whaling ship Lexington.

Dabney Margaret Wright would never see her husband again.

Dabney Kimball had seen pink with Clendenin for so many years that she had been convinced they would end up together. But watching him disappear toward the horizon shook her confidence. She thought, I will never see Clendenin Hughes again.

Yet, here he was.

He moved to embrace her. She batted at him, pummeled his chest—still being careful of his missing arm; weird how Dabney could be afraid of something that wasn’t there—but Clen pulled her in with his one strong arm, brought her close. She could smell him, he smelled the same, and he was still the same relentless bastard. He would not quit until the world saw things his way.

“Let go of me!” Dabney said.

“No,” he said. “I will not let go. I waited far too long for this moment. I have wanted nothing more in this life than to hold you again.”

“Stop!” Dabney said.

“Just relax,” Clen said. “You can walk away and never come back, but please just give me a moment to hold you and give you one kiss.”

Dabney succumbed. She hugged him fiercely around the middle and inhaled his scent and felt a rush of desire so strong it made her dizzy, and she wobbled. She felt Clen’s mouth in the part of her hair, and the warmth of this was unbearable. She raised her face to him and then they were kissing. It was insane, reckless kissing, kissing like Dabney had never known—but that wasn’t quite true. It was kissing like Dabney had known only with Clendenin when they were teenagers, when the wonder of kissing had first entered their lives. Their mouths, lips, tongues were searching, hungry, aching. It was that kind of kissing, so old it was new again, and with the kissing came desire so intense it hurt. He was instantly hard against her leg. She remembered sex with him, how desperate and mind-altering it had been, how it had felt like the earth was tilting, how she had howled with the first shuddering orgasms of her young body, and how he had placed the side of his hand into her mouth for her to bite so that her cries would be stifled. He would later show her the teeth marks and they would climb onto their bikes and ride to the pharmacy for strawberry frappes, Clen grinning like a fool, Dabney sweetly sore and tender against her bicycle seat.

So many things she had not allowed herself to remember.

She pulled away and there was a sucking sound, like a vacuum seal being broken. The sun went behind the clouds.

“I can’t,” she said.

“You can,” he said. He was short of breath. “You just did.”

“That was…I don’t know what that was.”

He growled a laugh. Beast. She had called him Beast because of his size, and his unruly dark hair, and his noises, and the ferocity that surfaced in him when he got riled. When she was first getting to know him, he reminded her of a character from a fairy tale—not an animal per se, but not quite human, either. He had arrived on Nantucket wounded from his life before, in Attleboro. His alcoholic father had drunk himself to death at the kitchen table. Clen had been wild and strange, and the smartest person Dabney had ever known.

“I’m married,” she said.

“I don’t care,” he said.

No, of course he wouldn’t care. He had bucked against convention and authority and the rules the entire time Dabney had known him. She assumed this was still true. He had graduated as valedictorian of their high school class, but had barely escaped being expelled for losing his temper with their history teacher, Mr. Druby, over the philosophical stands of Malcolm X. Clen had used profanity in his outrage, and he had called Mr. Druby an ignoramus (which Dabney had thought sounded like some kind of dinosaur), and it was only the ensuing wrath of Clen’s mother, Helen Hughes (for everyone, including the principal, was afraid of Helen Hughes), that had saved Clen.

“I don’t care if you don’t care,” Dabney said. “I care. Box is a good man.”

“The economist,” Clen said with derision.

“Yes.”

He was studying her. She couldn’t meet his eyes; it was too dangerous. Green glen and weak tea, Scottish hazel, the most mesmerizing eyes she had ever seen. Dabney knew this because they were also Agnes’s eyes.

Oh, God, Agnes.

Dabney said, “I have to go.”

“Come inside,” he said. “See my place.”

“No,” she said.