“That was different. I was just a secretary.”

“When are you going to stop jumping around like a harebrained rabbit? Have some focus in life. You’ll be thirty soon! When I was your age, I already had Hong and Nan. I was carrying forty kilos of rice home every day, strong as a horse. Look at you now… both you and Austin have your mother’s genes—soft.”

“You say the same things over and over again,” said Ivy.

“Do you think I like saying them?”

“I don’t have time for this. I called because”—she braced herself—“I was wondering if Baba could give me a loan. I’ll be leaving my job,” she rushed to explain, “because I need time to study for the LSATs and find an internship to gain more experience. The loan would just be for a year. If Baba can’t, that’s fine. I just thought I’d ask first because the interest rates banks charge these days are practically criminal.”

It wasn’t as bad as Ivy had feared. Meifeng only clucked her tongue, iterated a few of her old proverbs about appreciating one’s parents in times of need, and asked how much she needed. Ivy impulsively added five thousand dollars to the number she had prepared. Guilt made her stern. “I’ll be super busy from now on,” she said, “so tell Mama to stop calling me about that Kevin guy.” Meifeng tried to protest but Ivy cut her off. “If either of you mention him again, I swear I’m going to elope with the first man I see on the street.” She hung up to the sound of her grandmother’s angry squawk.

* * *

SEASIDE NEW ENGLAND always invoked a sense of nostalgia, like life viewed from a Polaroid. The slim beech trees, clapboard houses with steeply pitched roofs, the sun fading everything to a washboard white. A year ago, she’d been with Daniel in a similarly sleepy town in Rhode Island. She’d booked them the king suite at a famous bed-and-breakfast reviewed by Condé Nast as one of the most romantic destinations in America. During the day, Daniel had trailed after her as she went into one vintage shop after another, cooing over wind chimes shaped like doves and necklaces made of prayer beads, while Daniel held her little straw basket sagging with apricots and nectarines they’d bought from the farmer’s market. By the third day, they were so bored after brunch they resorted to eating another late lunch, at three o’clock, of fried oysters, followed by gelato, eaten sitting on a bench at the small park that made up the town center, watching two boys rollerblade around an oak tree. Ivy had tried to maintain her gaiety—Look at these clouds! How was your gelato?—but Daniel tapped his foot in the grass and said, “Now what?” and she’d had no answer because they’d already done everything on her list. Magic, she’d realized then, was not inherent to a place, it emanated from the person viewing it. This trip would be different, it would feel special and beautiful, because Gideon thought it was special and beautiful and he was the altered lens through which she would view the world. On the drive down, he’d steered with one hand and pointed at landmarks with the other, talking about the nice weather and the places he wanted to take her. “Look at that,” he said as they pulled into the driveway, “the Walds are here, too. I should hop on over and say hello!” Ivy had never seen him so peppy. It almost troubled her. Had he been unhappy, all this time, in Boston?

The Speyers’ cottage, Finn Oaks, was a typical beach house of the area, with green shutters and trimmings and a narrow pebbled walkway that led up to the front door with round latticed windows like those on a boat. It was empty when they arrived. A note from Poppy was pinned on the fridge underneath a seashell magnet: We have gone into town. There are leftover meatballs in the fridge if you darlings are hungry from the drive. See you soon. xx Mom. They ate the meatballs with the crusty baguette someone had left out on the counter, washed down with two beers.

When Ivy inquired after the origin of the cottage’s name, Gideon said that his great-granddad’s dog was named Finn and when Finn died, they’d buried him under the oak tree in the front yard. “Is this him?” Ivy asked, peering at a black-and-white photo on the fireplace mantel of a handsome man in a wide-brimmed hat. Gideon nodded, then pointed out other photos of grandparents, great-grandparents, aunts, uncles, great-uncles, dogs, cats, babies. Since then, said Gideon, the house had been repurposed as a summer home. Growing up, he and Sylvia had spent most of their summers here, fishing on the sailboat or swinging on the rubber tire tied to the oak tree by the beach. Despite the pride in Gideon’s voice, Ivy privately thought the house showed its age—the wooden planks along the ceiling were bent and cracked; the wall of windows in the family room were stately but the velvet curtains looked as if they hadn’t been aired in decades. The decor was also oddly shabby and provincial: straw and felt hats hung on pegs, woven baskets and clay pots strewn in various corners among rattan chairs, a Native American tapestry served as the centerpiece, and everywhere Ivy looked were wooden mobiles dangling with shells and pebbles, like those a child made at summer camp. Down the hall, they came to a yellow alcove lined with rickety bookshelves, the spines of old leather-bound books etched with cursive titles packed tightly between two gargoyle bookends. Gideon walked to the corner and yanked back an enormous yellow knit cover. Dust billowed around in the air before settling on the gleaming black lid of a piano. Gideon sat on the bench and played the beginning of “Chopsticks.” The piano was badly out of tune.

“They bought this for Sylvia so she could pick up an instrument,” said Gideon, “but then they found out she was tone-deaf. So they had me take lessons instead. No one really comes in here except Dad when he has to take calls.” He switched to playing a sonata in the minor key. There was no sheet music but his fingers moved swiftly across the keys without hesitation. He’d never mentioned he played the piano. Each day they were together, Ivy learned something new about him. It was marvelous, really. Perhaps this was the secret to a lasting marriage: to always uphold a veil of mystery between each other, like a silk screen dividing a bedroom chamber. If Shen had an ounce of mystery about him, maybe Nan wouldn’t look down on him so much.

“This is the best room in the house,” said Gideon, bringing her to the first bedroom upstairs. There was a four-poster bed with a crinkly linen duvet, a drop-leaf writing desk, two slender maple nightstands, and a heavy wooden chest at the foot of the bed, the lid open, displaying matching towels. Fresh flowers were abundantly displayed, green-tinged carnations in jugs, various bouquets, lavender pots, and on the nightstand, a water bowl floating with a cluster of peonies. Ivy walked over to the bowl and dipped her hand into the water. One petal broke free at her touch and floated away from the others. She had the urge to bring her fingers to her mouth and lick the peony-flavored droplets.

“Mom loves coordinating flowers with the furniture,” said Gideon. He noticed her funny expression. “What’s wrong?”

“The peonies. I thought they were fake. They looked so perfect.” In the vanity mirror, she caught their reflection: light head, dark head. We would have beautiful babies, she thought. She went over and kissed the tip of his nose.

“Sometimes I wish I could bottle up the way you look at me,” he said. “When I’m old and amnesic, I can take it back out and relive the look on your face.”

She reached down and found the cold metal buckle of his belt, and in one motion, pulled the end tip through the loop. His fingers moved to rest on top of hers. “They’ll be back soon.”

She withdrew her hand and went to stand by the window. Outside was a terrace overlooking a sloping lawn; beyond that was the surf lapping the sand.

“Do you like your room?” Gideon asked.

She turned around. “My room?”

“It’s tradition. I’m down the hall.”

She waited to see if he was teasing. He wasn’t. She toyed with a tassel on the curtain. “Are you going to sneak in at night?”

“Unfortunately, Mom has ears like a bat’s.” He gazed at her very seriously. “Are you upset?”

“I’ll miss you,” she said, shaking her head but smiling nevertheless. “Your mom is very sweet and old-fashioned. We’ll have a great week.” Her eyes drifted back to the peonies. “I can feel it.”

* * *