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was passionate about Manhattan, although they had been raised in distinctly different worlds. Adam’s family had a Park Avenue duplex, and he’d gone to Collegiate. She had been brought up in Stuyvesant Town, on Fourteenth Street, where her mother still lived, and she had attended the local parochial schools. But by coincidence they both had graduated from Georgetown University, although eight years apart. They both loved the ocean, and Adam had spent his summers on Cape Cod, while she had gone swimming on day trips to Jones Beach.
    When they started dating it was obvious to Menley that at thirty-two Adam was very content with his bachelor life. And why not? He was a successful defense attorney. He had a handsome apartment; a string of girlfriends. Sometimes weeks would go by between his calls.
    When he had proposed, Menley suspected that it had something to do with his approaching thirty-third birthday. She didn’t care. When they were married something her grandmother had told her years before echoed in her ears: “In marriage, one often is more in love than the other. It’s better if the woman is the one who doesn’t love as deeply.”
    Why is it better? Menley had wondered, and asked herself again as she looked at him sleeping so peacefully.What’s wrong with being the one who loves the most?
    It was seven o’clock. The strong sunlight was forcing its way into the room around the edges of the drawn shades. The spacious room was simply furnished with a four-poster, a two-on-three dresser, an armoire, a night table and a straight-backed chair. All the pieces were obviously authentic. Elaine had told her that just before Mr. Paley died, he and his wife had been going to auctions to collect early-eighteenth-century furniture.
    Menley loved the fact that each of the bedrooms had a fireplace, although they were unlikely to need them in August. The room next to theirs was small, but it seemed perfect for the baby. Menley wrapped the robe around her more tightly as she stepped into the hall.
    When she opened the door to Hannah’s room, a brisk breeze greeted her. I should have covered her with a quilt, Menley thought, dismayed at her omission. They’d looked in on the baby at eleven when they went to bed, debated about the quilt, then decided it wasn’t necessary. Obviously it had gotten much cooler than expected during the night.
    Menley hurried over to the crib. Hannah was sleeping soundly; the quilt was tucked securely around her. Surely I couldn’t have forgotten coming in during the night, Menley thought. Who covered her?
    Then she felt foolish. Adam must have gotten up and looked in on the baby, although it was something that rarely happened, since he was a heavy sleeper. Or I might have come in myself, she realized. The doctors had prescribed a bedtime sedative that made her terribly groggy.
    She wanted to kiss Hannah but knew if she did she risked instant awakening. “See you later, babe,” she whispered. “I need a peaceful cup of coffee first.”
    At the bottom of the staircase she paused, suddenlyaware of the rapid beating of her heart, of a sensation of overwhelming sadness. The thought leaped into her head: I’m going to lose Hannah too. No! No! That’s ridiculous, she told herself fiercely. Why even think like that?
    She went into the kitchen and put the coffee on to perk. Ten minutes later, a steaming cup in her hand, she stood in the front parlor, looking out at the Atlantic Ocean as the sun rose higher in the sky.
    The house faced Monomoy Strip, the narrow sandbar between ocean and bay that Menley had been told was the scene of countless shipwrecks. A few years ago the ocean had broken through the sandbar; Adam had pointed out where houses had tumbled into the sea. But Remember House, he assured her, was set far enough back so that it would always be safe.
    Menley watched as the ocean charged against the sandbar, spraying fountains of