Free On Green Dolphin Street by Sebastian Faulks

the hull’s return / Expands beneath the hammered blue / And something, something … ascends into the dancing air.’ ”
    “Something like that. Who’s it by?”
    “Search me.”
    At lunchtime, they landed at a mooring Edward knew, where the man who ran it, whose name was Kenny, had a floating bar. They clambered onto the end of the landing stage, the boat rocking with their transferred weight. They walked down between the rows of gently rocking boats, the sloops, schooners and skiffs, the motor launches with their covered cabins and the chrome skipper’s wheels glistening beneath self-important awnings. There was something about boats and boat people that always made Mary want to laugh, though this was a tendency she had to check in front of those kind enough to take them out—not that Edward Renshaw seemed to take the matter very seriously, but Katy, his pretty Bostonian wife, was a person of some dignity.
    On the door of Kenny’s floating bar was a notice that said “Berth Here,” but when Charlie, who was first up, went shakily across the suspended wooden walkway and tried the door he found it locked. On the other side of the boatyard was a man in overalls, whom Charlie followed into a small tackle store.
    “Is the bar open for lunch?” he said.
    “Sure. But Kenny’s not here right now.”
    “Do you know when he’ll be back?”
    “About four, I guess.”
    “I see.”
    Charlie walked back across the yard, past a gasoline pump and an area of loose stones covered with rusting marine detritus, to join the others.
    “Lunch is at four.”
    “I have some sodas,” said Katy. “It doesn’t matter.”
    “But what the hell are we going to drink?” said Edward.
    Charlie said, “I took a certain precaution.” From Mary’s wicker basket he extracted a two-pint thermos he had filled with dry martinis.
    “I guess I did, too,” said Frank, and pulled out a hip flask.
    They sat at the end of the landing stage, with their feet dangling over the water. Charlie lodged a ham sandwich between his teeth as he used both hands to unwrap the glasses; when he had poured four measures of martini, he broke the sandwich into small bits and threw them to the gulls.
    “Sal’s brought some chocolate cake,” said Katy, who, with Sal, had preferred Coca-Cola. “She’s just the best cook.”
    “I thought Katy was the dessert queen,” said Charlie.
    “Oh, no. Just you wait,” said Katy.
    “Hey, quit fooling around,” said Sal. She was taller and thinner than her elder sister; where Katy’s sleek prettiness was in her shiny chestnut hair and upturned nose, Sal was thin, with hunched shoulders and pale eyes. Mary thought Sal was beautiful, but Charlie always laughed at Mary’s idea of what was attractive in women; usually it was nothing more than the opposite of herself. Mary anticipated a whispered discussion in the cabin that night in which Charlie would explode with derisive laughter.
    Katy handed round some cold chicken, then some apples; when they had finished and congratulated Sal on her cake, it was warm enough for them to spread out on the boards and close their eyes. Mary leaned against Charlie, who was having another drink, and angled herself intothe sun. She withdrew, behind her sunglasses and her closed eyes, into a cocoon from which she could hear Frank’s voice, low in conversation with Sal. She could pick out occasional phrases: Boston … Kennedy … Michigan primary. Frank seemed to be interviewing Sal as he had previously interviewed her in the restaurant, and Sal seemed to be responding happily: Mary could hear her occasionally shrill laugh and caught the scent of one of Frank’s cigarettes.
    “Wind’s getting up,” said Edward.
    “Oh dear,” said Sal, “does that mean we can’t sail anymore?”
    “On the contrary,” said Edward. “The conditions are ideal.”
    “Oh God,” said Charlie, as they piled their rugs and baskets back into the stern.
    When they made their way out into