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Farther back in the pond it was mud and black silt—with eel grass and wrack to get fouled in the tongs. Too much current near the gut for that stuff. Dick closed the tongs and flipped up the business end, using the padded gunwale as a fulcrum. He shook a bit of ooze and muddy sand loose from the basket. Bingo! Look what the Easter Bunny left. He pulled the tongs in and picked up the quahog. He used to say that to Charlie and Tom when they were little. So little they had to use both hands to pick up a good quahog. Look what the Easter Bunny left. Dick held the quahog in his hand, ran a fingertip over the fine grooves of the shell.
    He reached in with the tongs again. It was a good patch in here. Hard to get to except by boat. Didn’t get weekend quahoggers wading in with their forks, pulling their inner tubes on a string with bushel baskets riding in the doughnut hole.
    The effort of tonging calmed him. The mild southwest wind blew toward him from the scrub at the back of the barrier beach. Beach plums, bayberry, beach peas, poison ivy. He caught a whiff of beach-rose blossoms.
    He was bringing up a quahog or two with every try. Better than he’d expected. If he topped off a bushel he’d run them over to Mary Scanlon’s Green Hill restaurant, just west of the salt-marsh bird sanctuary. The tide was running in—he could get up the salt creek right to the restaurant porch. He’d come away with a few bucks for May. Sweeten up the fact that he was going out with Parker. Mary usually threw in a pie or a cake that hadn’t turned out just right—that would sweeten up May and the boys.
    It came through to Dick that Joxer Goode was calling to him. Dick looked up. Joxer waved both arms and yelled again, “Ahoy! Dick Pierce!”
    Dick finished sifting the basket, dropped another quahog on the pile, and waved back. Joxer beckoned to him. Dick saw that Joxer’sboat was pulled up pretty high on the beach. Dick yanked his anchor up, but didn’t crank the motor. He caught a little curl of the incoming tide that took him the first fifty feet, then he fitted his sculling oar and stroked across the current. Joxer waded in and caught the prow.
    “Hello there, Dick. Sorry to bother you, but you haven’t by any chance got a bottle opener on board?”
    Dick shook his head, not meaning so much “no” as “goddamn.”
    The smaller man put down a big movie camera that rode on his shoulder on a padded stock. He said, “We have all this cold beer, but it’s in nontwist bottles.”
    Joxer’s wife said hello and introduced Dick to the other two, Marie and Schuyler van der something. Dick saw a look on Marie’s face that was familiar to him. It was a little bit puzzled, a little bit vacant. Dick knew it from May. It meant “I’m not saying anything, but I’m not having as much fun as everyone else.”
    Dick said to Joxer, “You got a screwdriver—or a marlin spike?” Dick pulled his own rigging knife from his pocket and opened the spike. He took the bottle of Heineken Schuyler was holding and gave a little pry to several of the crimped furrows of the bottle cap with the tip of the spike. There was a satisfying hiss and a little foam leaked down the neck. Dick popped the cap off and handed the bottle back. Schuyler toasted him with the bottle and took a swig. Schuyler’s wife said, “Would you like one, Mr. Pierce?”
    Dick said, “No thanks.”
    Dick was having a little trouble with the bareness of the four bodies, particularly the two van der somethings. They looked barer than the Goodes. All four of them had early-summer pink-brown tans. Dick looked away and thought it might be the fact that both the van der somethings had perfect sets of tight blond ringlets.
    Joxer had the knack of prying open the beer now. “Would you like a sandwich, Dick?” Dick hesitated. Joxer’s wife handed him one and he couldn’t resist. It was fancy egg salad with bacon strips in it. He wished he’d taken a beer.
    Joxer said, “Come on ashore.