"Good night," said Heather. "It's been such fun."
Her handclasp carried a hint of finality that went beyond words, and Jerry said, "Been?"
"Wesley gets back tomorrow."
Without being told, Jerry knew that Heather's portrait would have to be finished from memory. Any man worthy of the name, Jerry told himself, would have argued the point—unless he was broke and jobless and had a tax lien in his pocket.
He tried to work on her picture next morning, sought to imprison the laughter of her eyes, the song of her lips. But then he realized that the laughter was for somebody else. The song too.
From above came a few experimental notes on the glockenspiel. Presently Junior's mouth harp joined in. The melody staggered uncertainly, finally emerged as Mendelssohn's Wedding March.
Jerry threw down his brush and left the house. He walked toward the lighthouse. That once stately saltbox had already lost its lensed cupola and most of its siding. He watched for a long time as the Sam Schultz Salvage Company pried board from board and piled all in a stack of jack-straws. Maybe he could go to work for Sam Schultz and make enough to pay off the taxes. And, if he observed all the Horatio Alger niceties, maybe some day he'd own the company and could seek Heather Higgins' hand in marriage—only to discover she had long since married Wesley.
He walked along the beach. Climbing to a jutting promontory, he watched waves break against the rocks below. Why not throw himself into the sea? He could become a ghost, and maybe find a lady ghost, and....
He went home and forced himself to work on Heather Higgins' portrait. He filled an entire sketch pad with brief line drawings of her until, late at night, he finally fell asleep in his chair. He awakened to broad daylight—and the whistling of the postman.