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“We’re not going to crash, Jane,” he said, and held her hand more tightly.

Sixty

THE PLANE TOOK OFF, taking its sweet time finding its cruising altitude. In Michael’s opinion they were spending way too much time examining the rooftops of Queens. Even when they had moved up among the clouds, the plane made a putt-putt-putt sound that wasn’t exactly reassuring.

Somehow, though, in about fifty minutes they were closing in on Nantucket. They could see miles of sandy shoreline down below, plus a few smaller islands. Then they landed — without a hitch. Jane finally let go of Michael’s hand.

Even though it was only late spring, the place was crowded with people in summer-bright clothing. A sea of pinks and yellows and lime greens. Carefully distressed jeans and surfing jams. Seagulls squawking overhead as if they’d never seen tourists before, or maybe they’d seen far too many of them.

Michael and Jane made their way to the taxi line. The sun was sharp overhead. The air was crisp and clean.

As they waited, Jane reached up to Michael’s face and held it in both her hands. “Michael, where are you?” she asked.

“What? I’m right here.”

He didn’t know what to say, but knew he’d better pull himself together. He’d been thinking about Jane dying, but she was right here, wasn’t she? They both were. So why was he wasting precious time? Why did anybody? Why waste a second of the time that you have? It was so obvious to him now.

“We’re together,” Jane said, looking into his eyes. “Let’s just enjoy this time, okay? Just put aside everything on your mind and be with me. Let’s take everything one day at a time. An hour at a time. Minute by minute. Okay?”

Michael covered one of her hands with his and turned his head to kiss her palm gently. He smiled and nodded.

“Yes,” he said. “Minute by minute. Hour at a time. Day at a time.” Cabs and jitneys kept pulling up to the little airport. People would load them up with canvas bags from L. L. Bean and shopping bags from Dean and DeLuca. Michael and Jane waited with growing impatience. Finally, they were at the head of the line.

“Throw those valises in the trunk,” the cabdriver said.

Valises. What a wonderful old-fashioned word to use. Hearing it made Michael smile, and seeing him smile made Jane laugh. “Good. You’re back.”

“I’m right here, Jane. That’s my hand holding your hand. That’s my fast-beating heart you can hear.”

Jane smiled, then took one last look around. Collecting memories, Michael thought. The tall sea grass bent in the wind. Gulls flew overhead. A blond teenage girl had set up a makeshift stand near the taxi line to sell homemade jams.

The cabdriver could have been the brother of the pilot who had just flown them up. A down-home, no-nonsense New Englander, aged somewhere between sixty and eighty-five.

“Now, where can I take you nice folks?” he asked.

“The India Street Inn,” Michael said.

“Good choice,” he responded. “Old whaling captain’s house, y’know.”

Jane smiled and squeezed Michael’s hand tighter.

“Good choice,” she repeated. “Love them whaling captains.”

“And yes,” Michael suddenly said into her ear, “in answer to your question a while back. Yes, I have had sex before.”

Sixty-one

HERE’S WHAT JANE AND MICHAEL didn’t see driving into town: fast-food restaurants, souvenir stores, even a traffic signal. This actually was paradise. They did see a couple of homemade signs advertising the tenth Nantucket Wine Festival and the thirty-fifth Figawi Boat Race. A perfect beginning to their visit.

Then their cab pulled up in front of the India Street Inn.

“This is what a Nantucket bed-and-breakfast should look like,” Jane said as they walked through the front door. That had been Michael’s plan: something simple and beautiful, not overdone, just pretty and fresh and right for their trip.

They certainly had it down to a fine science at this place, Michael thought: red geraniums in royal blue window flower boxes, colorful geometric quilts on the