Chapter 4: The Stairs

Ethan's house sat at the end of a gravel lane in Westport, with its back door open to the Sound.

It had been a boathouse once.

Now it had grey shingles, a slate roof and a staircase on the water side that went down to a private dock.

"This is the house your father wants to give Gilbert," I said.

"This is the house I paid for."

He put his keys in a bowl by the door.

"My father has the deed. I have the bills."

Inside it was quiet and plain, with books stacked on the floor and no photographs.

I liked it before I wanted to.

He showed me the guest wing, which had its own bathroom and a lock, and I told him the lock was unnecessary.

"Rule one," he said.

"Rule one is separate bedrooms. It doesn't say who locks what."

"Keep the key."

He put it in my palm without touching my hand.

I noticed that, too.

That afternoon we picked a ring from a case the jeweller carried out to the lane in two velvet trays.

I chose the plainest one, a thin gold band with a small stone.

The jeweller said it was nothing like what a Leverett bride was expected to wear.

"I'm not a Leverett bride," I said. "I'm a one-year tenant."

Ethan turned his head away.

For a second I thought he was angry.

Then I saw the corner of his mouth.

By five o'clock the light had gone orange on the water.

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