My alibi was simple but sufficient: “Off to the library,” I’d said to Stu, a stack of books as proof, and he had scarcely looked up from his Times. The furtive mood was heightened by the afternoon’s conditions: the sun like a secret agent, stealing from cloud to cloud; a shifty wind that disarranged the dunes. Debora and I had the beach almost to ourselves. Two lovebirds, khaki cuffs rolled up to their knees, held hands and hurdled low breakers. A smoky-haired woman and her not-so-golden retriever hobbled with the same arthritic gait. We headed east, skirting between sand and sea-buffed stones. Debora looked undaunted as she walked across the scree. She wore a crimson windbreaker, buttoned at the bottom, which kept catching gusts of breeze and puffing on both sides, calling to mind the bulging cheeks of someone about to blow out birthday candles. “Wow,” she said. “So beautiful.” Her arms stretched up, outward; her cheeklike jacket caught another gust. “My folks chose well,”
