Martin interrupted.
“I know. Sometimes I wish we were at sea again.”
“What about Deane?” asked Rio.
Martin’s voice was as even as his steps.
“I wouldn’t mention her name, Rio,” he said. “We never think about a little thing like that the first time.” His voice was trembling now. “But I wouldn’t ever see her, or mention her name again.”
They walked along Eighth Street without speaking for a few blocks until Rio turned to his friend.
“Is that all you’re goin’ to say?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I’m a miserable bastard, Martin. I wish I was in Santa de Marina. By God!—I think I’ll go.”
Rio sounded so unusually plaintive that Martin had to laugh.