Fiedler sat on his piazza in a pair of heavy brown slacks and red canvas sandals with cork soles, and drank a Scotch-and-soda as the sun went down. He looked out across the parched lawn that had been burned to a crisp brown by the summer drought and the sea air, and waited for Dolores. It was hard to tell just when Dolores would appear, or from where—whether it would be from the path through the thick hedge along the lane, or up the gravel driveway and through the house, or through the oak grove and across the back lawn—carrying her riding boots in her hand, if it was especially warm, and walking barefoot, or in slippers, swinging her crop in her hand. But when Dolores came she would say something like, “I saw you sitting here, between the maples,” and Mr. Fiedler would say, “They’re red oaks, not maples, dear,” and she would laugh. And then there would be such a silence, such a hush, and under the lantern light, or in the sun, if any sun remained—whichever it happened to be—Mr.
