“Porthos and Aramis,” Anna said aloud. Watching the two faces, so alike, she had put the allusion together. “How long have the three of you been diving together?”

A tear, colored like blood from the fire’s light, flashed on Holly’s cheek. She swatted it away as if it were a fly. “Always,” she said.

“Seven years,” Hawk defined “always,” but it sounded as if it was always to him as well.

“Since we knew what diving was about. Since the Three Sisters were in pinafores. Since we quit fucking around,” Holly said sharply. “Always.”

Anna waited but there was no more. Denny came back with the salad and, seeming to take it for granted that he was to wait on them, cleared Anna’s desk and set out plates and flatware. Anna was too tired to help and Hawk and Holly seemed determined to let him serve. When he was finished, he sat down on a stool he’d pulled up. He was the only one at the table, the only one interested, it seemed, in the food.

“This is a celebration,” he said, looking not at them but down at his empty plate. “I’m getting married tomorrow.”

“To a regular woman?” Anna asked, taken by surprise.

Holly began to laugh.

Hawk turned his face away from Denny, from his sister. There was as much pain in his look as there had been in Holly’s laughter.

Anna stood, drained her glass, shook off their misery. She was tired. She was hungry. Maybe they’d been on one too many dives. The deep addled people’s brains. She carried her wine bottle to the desk and sat down in the wooden swivel chair. Supper was made and it was free.

“Congratulations, Denny,” she said equitably. “Please pass the salad.”

TWO

Mist lay over Amygdaloid Channel. Humps of pale gray moved lazily over the surface as if ghostly whales swam between air and water. Patches drifted clear and the silver of reflected light glowed till fingers of fog curled back to reclaim the space. To the east, over the green ridges of Belle Isle, the dawn sky was burning into blue, the promise of a beautiful day.