Hadley lifts his eyebrows. “You getting married or having a baby or something? What’s the occasion?”

I lean my elbows on the table. “I got to ask you something. What’s going on between you and Rebecca?”

Hadley grins. “What’s going on between you and Jane?”

“Come on,” I say, “that’s not the question here.”

“Sam, I don’t mess in your business; you don’t mess in mine.” The drinks come, and Hadley lifts his glass and toasts me. “Cheers.”

“She’s really young. You’ve got Jane all upset.”

Hadley scowls. “Rebecca’s got a more grown-up head on her shoulders-than either one of us. I wouldn’t fuck around with a kid, Sam, if I didn’t think it was right.”

I take a long, deep drink of the whiskey. It burns the back of my throat, which makes me think the words may come easier. “I wouldn’t fuck around, either, if I didn’t know it was right.” I swirl the liquid in the glass. “I think you’d better go away for a little while.”

Hadley stares at me “What are you talking about?”

“I’m saying I think you should take a vacation. Get away from the orchard. Go visit your mom,” I say. “She hasn’t seen you since Christmas.”

“You’re doing this because of her fucking mother.”

“I’m doing it because of me. And you. I’m doing what I think is right.”

“She told you to do it, didn’t she? She’s making you do this. You’ve known me all your life. You’ve known her for five days. I can’t believe you’re doing this.”

“Leave Jane out of this,” I say, floundering. “This is between you and me.”

“Like hell it is. Jesus!” He kicks the table again, and then takes a deep breath and eases himself into his chair. “Okay,” he says. “I want to know one thing. I want to know why nobody asked me or Rebecca what we think. I want to know why the whole goddamned world is voting on our future, everyone but us.”

“It’s not for long. A week, maybe two. I just want to give Jane a little time to herself. You don’t know her, Hadley. She’s not just some rich bitch. She’s had a really rough life.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t know Rebecca,” Hadley says. “Do you know what it’s like when I’m with her? She believes in me more than my own folks ever did. Shit, I’ve told her things I’ve never even told you. No matter what I’m doing or where I am, she’s in my head.”

Hadley flattens his palms against the game table. “Have you ever even talked to her, Sam? She’s lived through a plane crash. She takes better care of her mother than the other way around. She knows about you two, that’s for sure. You think Jane’s had a rough life? You should see the trip she’s laid on her own kid.”

Hadley drains his glass, and then reaches for mine. “So if you want to know, Am I in love with her, the answer’s yes. If you want to know, Am I going to take care of her, I will. No one else seems to be doing a bangup job of it.” When Hadley looks at me, there’s a purpose in his eyes I’ve never seen before. “Don’t think about what I’m doing to Rebecca, Sam. Think about what Jane’s doing to her.”

“Look,” I say. “I need you to do this for me. I’ll make it up to you. I swear it.”

Hadley swallows hard and blinks. He’s looking for more to drink, but there’s nothing left between us. “Yeah, right.”

“Hadley-”

He holds his hands up to stop me. “I don’t want your explanations. I don’t want to hear about it at all, okay? And I want my back pay.” I nod. “You listen to me, Sam. You’d better work this out good. Because you’re making me leave behind someone I care about a lot. I’m going to come after her, sooner or later, no matter how long you keep me away. I’ll find her. Tell Jane that, straight from my lips. I’m going to be with Rebecca no matter what.”

For what seems like minutes, we sit facing each other, absolutely silent. Finally I break the tension. “You’ll go in the morning.”

“Fuck that,” Hadley says, snorting. “I’m out of here tonight.”

We leave just after that. We ride home in the pickup and I swear I notice every bump and grit in the road. I notice the way both of our bodies bounce up and down at the same time. It’s gravity; we both weigh about the same. We pull into the driveway, and most of the lights downstairs in the house have been turned off.

Neither Hadley nor I make a motion to get out of the truck. The crickets slide the bows of their wings back and forth. “Who gets to tell her?” Hadley asks.

“Rebecca? You do. You should tell her.” Hadley looks at me, waiting for me to say more. “Go ahead. Go on up there. Stay as long as you want. I won’t tell Jane.”

He opens the truck door, and it buzzes the way it does when the seat belts are off. The inside light goes on, so I know he sees me lean my head against the steering wheel. I don’t feel like getting out of the car just yet. “She’s not a kid, Sam,” Hadley says quietly. “I’m not like that.” When he shuts the door, it makes a jointed, neat sound.

God bless America. My heart goes out to every sympathetic, kindhearted man and woman who has called the Provincetown Center for Coastal Studies since hearing my broadcast on the shores of Gloucester. The switchboard operator patches them into the tiny closet where Windy has installed a telephone for me, for privacy. I am told that Jane has been spotted at an Exxon station on the Mass. Pike. A man remembers Rebecca’s face in his convenience store in Maynard. And last, but certainly not least, a young fellow who works at an ice cream stand in Stow calls in. He asks if I am the whale guy. He has seen my wife and my child. “Came in here with a local man who runs an apple farm.” Victory.

“Do you know his name?” I ask, pressing him for more details. What was he wearing? How many people in his party? What type of car did he drive?

“Hey, that’s it!” the young man says. “A blue pickup, really nice new truck, which is how come I noticed. And it said Hansen’s on the door.”

Hansen. Hansen. Hansen. None of the mailboxes on this road have that name; doesn’t the man have any relatives in the town? Anything to appease my gnawing excitement? I have already plotted what I will do. It is barely five in the morning, and even a farm will still be asleep. So I will jimmy the lock and creep inside, and try to find Jane’s bedroom. It should be easy; she sleeps with the door ajar because she is claustrophobic. And then I will sit on the edge of the bed, and touch her hair. I have forgotten its texture. I’ll wait until she stirs and then I’ll kiss her. Oh, will I kiss her.

Hansen’s. I slam the brakes, sending the Lincoln spinning. I have always preferred big cars, but they fishtail at times like this. I right myself, and pull into the long, winding driveway. If I drive the entire way, they might hear me. So I park midway on the rutted gravel and walk to the large white house.

The porch creaks beneath me. I try the door-open-does anyone in the country lock their doors? Inside, I have to feel my way in the dark, but I do not mind. This is a good sign: no one is awake.

I became very good at cracking doors just a hair when Rebecca was a baby. If she heard the slightest sound, she’d wake and begin to cry, and God knows it was difficult enough to get her to sleep through the night. It’s all in the wrist.

The farthest door on the right yields an empty room decorated with antiques and patchwork quilts. Jane’s purse is in here, which leads me to deduce that this is indeed her room and she is probably sleeping with Rebecca out of fear or discomfort or loneliness. My heart is pounding when I open the next door, expecting to find my wife and my child together. But it is just Joley, snoring loud enough to blast granite.

When I open the next bedroom door, it too is empty, but the sheets are messed on the bed. Strewn around the room are Rebecca’s clothes-I recognize her GUARD suit, the one she was wearing the day she left. A half-full glass of juice sits at the bedside, as if the room was left in a hurry. As if the occupant is coming right back. This worries me; I don’t want her to see me before I have a chance to see and speak to Jane. So I duck into the hallway, and make my way to the last door.