Bette had left her job at the Barnacle shortly after Dennis and I married. With her part of the inheritance from their grandmother, she’d rented a storefront in downtown Coconut Grove and opened a dive shop. She’d started small, organizing day trips and classes, but within two years she’d moved into a larger space and had a staff of six. It had been more than five years since we’d camped together at Fisheating Creek, and still her hair was cut very short.

After Dennis came out of Bette’s house—he was a little rattled at leaving Margo behind, I recall—we’d gotten into the car, and Margo had stood waving happily at us from the porch, clutching Mimo and leaning against her aunt’s slender hip.

The package bobbed along while we ate breakfast, and every few minutes either Paul or Dennis walked to the window.

“Still there,” Dennis said.

“No sign of the pickup,” Paul said.

“Our detectives,” said Marse, rolling her eyes. “I say, call the Coast Guard and be done with it.”

“I agree,” I said, and received a sharp look from Dennis.

I’d barely spoken to Paul during breakfast, but afterward, when I was washing the dishes, he came up behind me. Marse and Dennis were on the porch, drinking coffee and keeping an eye on the Becks’ house. Paul took a plate from my hands and dried it with a dish towel. We continued for several minutes—me washing, him drying—without speaking. “Frances,” he said after the last dish was in the cabinet. “I thought maybe we could walk the flats while they fish. I don’t feel like fishing anyway, do you?”

“Not really.” I should have known Paul would be interested in the flats—he owned a plant nursery down south. “Did you want to go now?”

“Why not? There’s no wind, and the tide’s out.”

“Put on a T-shirt so you won’t burn.”

“Do I need shoes?”

I nodded. “There are some in the generator room. What size?”

“Eleven.”

“I’ll meet you down there.”

On the porch, Marse was staring through binoculars at the shore, and Dennis was telling a story I’d heard half a dozen times. “Right about there,” he said, guiding her binoculars. The buttons of his shirt were undone: Paul’s influence, I surmised. “Just off Gables Estates—those gigantic houses with the fake columns and the sculptures in the yard, those ugly houses.” Marse put down the binoculars and Dennis continued, “It just looked like a mannequin, to tell you the truth. That’s what I thought—someone had lost a mannequin in the middle of the waterway. I was twelve years old. My mother went crazy when she saw. She started cursing like a trucker. I’d never heard her curse like that. Fucking Mafia, she yelled. Fucking no-good sons of bitches, fucking drug-dealing pieces of shit. You would’ve thought she knew the guy. My father covered her mouth with his hand, and we drifted right by the body. I just stood there at the helm, watching it float by. It was a man, and he was twisted out of shape, like both arms were broken, and I could see one open eye, a bunch of bruises on his face. My father called the marine police, and they showed up in thirty minutes or so, and we went home. We had planned to go to the yacht club and get some sandwiches or something, but we just went home.”

“Goddamn,” said Marse. “My mother would have fainted on the spot.”

I said, “Anyone interested in walking the flats?”

Marse shook her head. “Your husband and I are going to hunt and gather.”

“You’re sure?” I said. “There’s no wind—it’s clear as glass.”

Dennis smiled. “Have fun,” he said. He pulled my wrist to his lips and kissed it, then turned back to Marse.

In the generator room, under layers of old shoes—sneakers and flip-flops and even a pair of ballet slippers—I found a pair of navy deck shoes that had belonged to Dennis’s father. I brought the deck shoes and a pair of sneakers to the dock. Paul slipped on the shoes, then jumped off the dock while I climbed down the swimming ladder, turning away from his splash. He dove, kicking, and did a handstand. When he emerged, he said, “This is fucking divine. How do you not come here every weekend of your lives?”

We moved from the deeper water beneath the docks onto the flats. “It takes a lot of work to leave civilization behind,” I said. “And Margo isn’t that strong a swimmer.” Every weekend, Dennis practiced with her in his parents’ swimming pool. She put her head down and made her way across the water, splashing erratically and coming up for air in mid-stroke, blustery and blinking. Dennis would tell her to focus on breathing for one lap, on her stroke for the next. When she tired, he perched her on his shoulders and told her he was her giant and the pool was her kingdom, and let her order him to take her to the steps, then back to the deep end, then back to the steps again.

The family who had owned the stilt house directly west of us, the Suttons, had recently moved to Orlando. This was the beginning of a period during which we were always learning of another family moving north. Often this had more to do with the changing demographics of the city, I suspected, than anything else. It had been almost fifteen years since the Bay of Pigs, and still John F. Kennedy was the second-most-hated man in South Florida, after Fidel Castro. In the coming years a bumper sticker would gain popularity: WILL THE LAST AMERICAN TO LEAVE MIAMI PLEASE BRING THE FLAG?

The Suttons had transferred their land lease and sold their stilt house to a man whose name I never knew. Unlike every other Stiltsville occupant, he lived on the bay full-time, employing runners to bring food—and women—from Miami. We called him the hermit. Sometimes Dennis and I took binoculars to the kitchen window and watched the hermit’s house, searching for clues about his lifestyle, about him. I wondered how he could afford to live on the water, what he did with his days. It was incredible to look over at his house—wood-shingled and squat, smaller than ours—and realize that a person was inside, but also that no boat was tied to the dock. Maybe he didn’t worry about emergencies. Or maybe he assumed at all times that an emergency was coming, and was resigned to it.

Paul stopped walking and I almost bumped into him. I could see the pink of his skin through his wet T-shirt, the short hairs on the back of his neck. “Look,” he said, pointing at the water. By his foot, a blue crab skittered across the sand, then slipped underneath a rock. He crouched and pointed again. “That’s a vase sponge. They can get as big around as a barrel.” The bright pink sponge was the shape of a bell. I squatted, burying a hand in the sand to keep my balance. “Watch it,” said Paul, picking up my arm and steadying me against him. He pointed. “A fire worm. You’ll sting for a week.”

Of course I knew about fire worms—I’d walked the flats a dozen times with Grady or Bette, both of whom could name every sea creature in South Florida—but I hadn’t noticed the one next to my foot. It was the deep waxy color of a red crayon. We could barely take a step without rubbing up against something living—sponges, sea urchins, coral, sand dollars. Beside the fire worm was a starfish, and beside that was a penny, which I picked up and dropped into the neckline of my swimsuit. I shifted away so Paul and I were not touching. He pointed to a green leathery lump the size and shape of a rolled-up pair of socks. “There—that’s a sea squirt,” he said. “Our direct ancestors, so they say.”

He offered me his hand and I took it, but only until I’d stepped over a wide stretch of coral. We walked for an hour. Paul spoke only to point out a creature or plant, and I spoke only to acknowledge him. The flats surrounded our stilt house on three sides, and I’d never before walked to their far edges, where the sea life petered out, the sandy spaces began to dominate, and the water deepened. When the waves started to push against my thighs, making my knees buckle, I turned back. The house looked doll-size and unadorned, its intricacies smudged by distance. The boat was not at the dock; Dennis and Marse must have gone fishing. They’d probably waved to tell us they were headed off, but we hadn’t seen. Paul looked toward the Becks’ house. “That goddamn package,” he said.

It was still there. We wouldn’t have seen it, bobbing along half-sunk, if we hadn’t been looking for it. I took a few steps in that direction, watching for obstacles. The flats stretched right across to the Becks’ house, and the distance was walkable as long as the tide was out. My heartbeat quickened. “Do you want to get it?” I said.

Paul shook his head. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

I felt tricked. I’d been led into letting curiosity overcome me. “I’m going back.”

“Don’t,” he said. “Let’s talk.”

For a moment, the sun-drenched flats seemed as sinister as a dark alley, and Paul as unpredictable as a stranger. “About what?” I said.

He shrugged. “Life, work, marriage.”

“What about them?”

He picked up a sand dollar and studied its markings. “How long has it been for you two?”

“Almost six years.”

“Happy years?”

I crossed my arms over my chest, but with the waves lapping my thighs and the breeze blowing my hair across my face, the posture felt ridiculous. “Yes,” I said. I wondered if he was thinking of proposing to Marse. It had never occurred to me—not even once—that this might happen.

“Marse and me—” He took a breath. “Can I ask you a question? What do you think is the most important ingredient in a successful relationship?”

“I don’t know,” I said. I felt bullied and thrilled at the same time: was romance something Paul and I could examine together, as if from a distance? “I thought I knew when I got married,” I said, “but now I don’t.”