“It’s on the shelf next to the cookbooks.”

I looked at her.

“Of course it is,” I agreed.

The easy mood between us lasted until we finished dinner and began to clear the table.

Then, slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, the quick banter between us gave way to more stilted conversation, punctuated by longer pauses. By the time we’d started to clean the kitchen, we had retreated into a familiar dialogue, in which the most animated sound came not from either of us, but from the scraping of plates in the kitchen.

I can’t explain why this happened, other than to say that we’d run out of things to say to each other. She asked about Noah a second time, and I repeated what I’d said previously. A minute later, she started speaking of the photographer again, but halfway through her story, she stopped herself, knowing she’d already recounted that as well. Because neither of us had spoken to Joseph or Leslie, there was no news on those fronts, either. And as for work, because I was out of the office, I had nothing whatsoever to add, even in an offhanded way. I could feel the earlier mood of the evening beginning to slip away and wanted to prevent the inevitable from happening. My mind began to search for something, anything, and I finally cleared my throat.

“Did you hear about the shark attack down in Wilmington?” I asked.

“You mean the one last week? With the girl?”

“Yes,” I said, “that’s the one.”

“You told me about it.”

“I did?”

“Last week. You read me the article.”

I washed her wineglass by hand, then rinsed the colander. I could hear her sorting through the cupboards for the Tupperware.

“What a horrible way to start a vacation,” she remarked. “Her family hadn’t even finished unpacking the car yet.”

The plates came next, and I scraped the remains into the sink. I turned on the garbage disposal, and the rumbling seemed to echo against the walls, underscoring the silence between us. When it stopped, I put the plates into the dishwasher.

“I pulled some weeds in the garden,” I said.

“I thought you just did that a few days ago.”

“I did.”

I loaded the utensils and rinsed the salad tongs. I turned the water on and off, slid the dishwasher rack in and out.

“I hope you didn’t stay in the sun too long,” she said.

She mentioned this because my father had died of a heart attack while washing the car when he was sixty-one years old. Heart disease ran in my family, and I knew it was something that worried Jane. Though we were less like lovers than friends these days, I knew that Jane would always care for me. Caring was part of her nature and always would be.

Her siblings are the same way, and I attribute that to Noah and Allie. Hugs and laughter were a staple in their home, a place where practical jokes were relished, because no one ever suspected meanness. I’ve often wondered about the person I would have become had I been born into that family.

“It’s supposed to be hot again tomorrow,” Jane said, breaking into my thoughts.

“I heard on the news it’s supposed to hit ninety-five degrees,” I concurred. “And the humidity is supposed to be high, too.”

“Ninety-five?”

“That’s what they said.”

“That’s too hot.”

Jane put the leftovers into the refrigerator as I wiped the counters. After our earlier intimacy, the lack of meaningful conversation seemed deafening. From the expression on Jane’s face, I knew she too was disappointed by this return to our normal state of affairs. She patted her dress, as if looking for words in her pockets. Finally, she drew a deep breath and forced a smile.

“I think I’ll give Leslie a call,” she said.

A moment later, I was standing in the kitchen alone, wishing again that I were someone else and wondering whether it was even possible for us to start over.

In the two weeks following our first date, Jane and I saw each other five more times before she returned to New Bern for the Christmas holidays. We studied together twice, went to a movie once, and spent two afternoons walking through the campus of Duke University.

But there was one particular walk that will always stand out in my mind. It was a gloomy day, having rained all morning, and gray clouds stretched across the sky, making it look almost like dusk. It was Sunday, two days after we’d saved the stray, and Jane and I were strolling among the various buildings on campus.

“What are your parents like?” she asked.

I took a few steps before answering. “They’re good people,” I finally said.

She waited for more, but when I didn’t answer, she nudged my shoulder with her own.

“That’s all you can say?”

I knew this was her attempt to get me to open up, and though it wasn’t something I’d ever been comfortable doing, I knew that Jane would keep prodding me—gently and persistently—until I did. She was smart in a way that few others were, not only academically, but about people as well. Especially me.

“I don’t know what else to tell you,” I said. “They’re just typical parents. They work for the government and they’ve lived in a town house in Dupont Circle for almost twenty years. That’s in D.C., where I grew up. I think they thought about buying a house in the suburbs some years back, but neither one of them wanted to deal with the commute, so we stayed where we were.”

“Did you have a backyard?”

“No. There was a nice courtyard, though, and sometimes weeds would sprout between the bricks.”

She laughed. “Where did your parents meet?”

“Washington. They both grew up there, and they met when they both worked for the Department of Transportation. I guess they were in the same office for a while, but that’s all I know for sure. They never said much more than that.”

“Do they have any hobbies?”

I considered her question as I pictured both my parents. “My mom likes to write letters to the editor of The Washington Post,” I said. “I think she wants to change the world. She’s always taking the side of the downtrodden, and of course, she’s never short of ideas to make the world a better place. She must write at least a letter a week. Not all of them get printed, but she cuts out the ones that do and posts them in a scrapbook. And my dad . . . he’s on the quiet side. He likes to build ships in bottles. He must have made hundreds over the years, and when we ran out of space on the shelves, he started donating them to schools to display in the libraries. Kids love them.”