his father could make in a month.
  Dagon, he prayed, Dagon, hear me. Cast them down. Raise me up.
  He ached for what they had. The lives they had. The freedom from this island. From the 
world he had mastered.
  He read books on Manhattan; he learned about Jenna’s family, how 
her great-great-grandfather had worked on railroads and then had gone on to own them, and 
how her great-grandfather had lost that fortune; how her grandfather had gotten into 
radio and television and magazines, owning several, selling them, building up a small but 
substantial media empire; how her mother had continued that work, married a great media 
magnate, divorced, married again, had Jenna and remained with Mr. M although the marriage 
ran hot and cold.
  The story of Jenna’s family was the story of all the summer people, and though they 
lived simply on the island for the three months, though they rode cheap bikes around the 
Great Salt Pond, though they dressed casually even for the one restaurant in Old Town 
Harbor (the Salty Dog), they were all overmoneyed as his father often said.
  His father spoke of money as evil; his mother spoke of it like a lost child.
  Owen felt it was something like fire — to be feared and mastered. It was what other 
people were given.
  It’s what he would be granted.
  And these people tromping off the ferry had it. They lived it. They did not dream of 
getting off this island. They dreamed of things beyond what Owen could imagine.
  4
  She never arrived, and he walked the long narrow wooden staircase from the beach up to 
the bluffs; and then he ran along the fringe of pines to the dirt path that went further 
up the rolling cliffs; and he didn’t look back down to the water until he was at their 
property.
  At the house, he went and sat in one of the wrought-iron lawn chairs and leaned back to 
gaze up at the sky.
  “Owen?”
  He sat up, looking around. He rose from the chair, practically knocking it over, and 
there she was — at the third story attic window.
  No, it was Mrs. M. Her auburn hair was swept back from her face, damp from the swimming 
pool; her robe fastened none too tight. She possessed the air of having enjoyed life too 
much that day. “Owen? It’s good to see you.”
  “Yeah, Mrs. M, me too. I didn’t think you had got here just yet.”
  “Oh, my husband still hasn’t left his desk yet. I’ve been here since Wednesday.
  Good to be back. I despise the city.”
  “Survive winter okay?”
  “Superbly,” she said, but in a way that meant its opposite. Mrs. M was a woman full of 
irony; he had known it for years. Mrs. M embodied the house:
  beautiful, classic, and rich. “Do you want coffee?” she asked.
  5
  “I saw you waiting for her,” Mrs. M said. They were in the sunroom off the kitchen, and 
Owen had just finished his first cup of cinnamon coffee. He got up to pour himself 
another, but Mrs. M interceded; she had a fresh cup, with cream, all ready for him. He 
sat down at the table again. She took the chair across from him. He saw her knee emerge 
from her robe. The hint of her champagne glass breasts, small but perfect. Mrs. M was in 
many ways more beautiful than her daughter; but still, his heart belonged to Jenna.
  He did what he could to look at her face, but something in her eyes bothered him. He 
looked, instead, at her silken arms.
  “You’re in love with my daughter. No, that’s fine. I’ve known it since you were both 
young. Do you think it will lead anywhere?”
  “Lead?” He said the word innocently, but she must’ve seen through this.
  “I don’t know.”
  “Yes, you do. You’re smart. I’ve watched you grow up. You’re smart and handsome and 
wise. But, do you think that she will have you?”
  “I haven’t…I haven’t considered…” he stammered.
  “You’re a remarkable young man,” Mrs. M said. “She doesn’t deserve you.” Then, she put 
down her own untouched coffee, and stood up from the table. “She gets in tonight. After 
midnight.”
  “How? The ferry —”
  “She has her ways,” Mrs. M said. She brushed something from the edge of her eye, and 
combed her hands through her hair like a mermaid would.
  “Fancy a swim?”
  “Not today,” he said.
  “Come on, just a nice long swim. Have you been practicing all winter?”
  He nodded.
  “I thought so. You ripple now. You don’t move, you ripple. You’re in better shape than 
he is,” Mrs. M said, and then went to get her bathing suit.
  6
  Come midnight, he saw the shroud of some sailboat press beneath the lights of the 
harbor. He sat up on the bluffs and watched as she docked; as the sail came down. No one 
stepped off the boat at the jetty. Was it her? Was this what Mrs. M had meant?
  He fell asleep in the cool wet grass and awoke at dawn.
  And he knew.
  Jenna Montgomery had found another.
  7
  “Jimmy,” the guy said, his face gleaming, tanned, teeth so much thoroughbred he 
could’ve been in Pimlico, his eyes squinty, his nose small, his hair honey-blond from too 
much sun, and his handshake strong and sure and arrogant. He looked rich without ever 
having to say it. He smelled rich. He probably tasted rich. “Good to meet you, Crites.”
  “Owen.”
  “You’re not an Owen or a Crites,” Jimmy said. “You’re a Mooncalf.”
  “Mooncalf?” Jenna laughed, looking at Owen and then back at Jimmy.
  “That sounds ghastly.” She wore a bikini, but had a long towel draped about her waist 
that ran all the way to her ankles. Her hair was wet and shining from a morning swim. For 
a moment, Owen imagined how it would feel to untie the bikini top and press his face 
against her breasts. For a moment, the image was in his mind; then, gone.
  All Owen could think was: they’d slept together on the boat. Jenna and this Jimmy 
character. Jimmy had done it with Jenna.
  Done it.
  A sacred act if it was love.
  A debased ritual, if it was lust and emptiness.
  Which it had to be.
  He tried not to imagine Jimmy drawing her legs apart, or the scent of passion that 
clung to them, the sweat and fever, as they joined together.
  Tried not to imagine the thrusts.
  “Mooncalf reminds me of upstate New York, or Pennsylvania,” Jenna said with no little 
disgust. “Cows and chickens. Amish in carriages. Birthings and midwives. Owen can’t be a 
Mooncalf.”