HE SUMMER UNCURLED and stretched like a sated, sleepy cat. Day after day, the sky glowed blue, the air was clear and dry. We didn’t get much rain, and every passing vehicle stirred eddies of dust along the roads. By the end of July, the leaves were grayish green, the ocean a balmy sixty-two degrees, and Joe and I were a couple. An official couple. We got together three or four times a week, and every time I saw that incredible face smiling at me, I shook myself mentally. It was real. I had done it.

Curtis and Mitch came down from Provincetown and gave him their four-star approval rating. They flirted mercilessly with him, but Joe didn’t seem to mind. But when I called Curtis and Mitch later to get the inside skinny, they didn’t say much other than to wax poetic about Joe’s beauty, leaving me with a slightly empty feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Another night, we went to my parents’ house for dinner. They knew Joe, of course, and Joe and my dad had even played poker a few times, so it wasn’t as uncomfortable as most of those “meet my parents” situations. Joe happily wolfed down three helpings of ham and scalloped potato dinner, much to Mom’s delight. He and Dad talked about potholes and traffic.

“Nearly got sideswiped by a goddamn minivan yesterday in Ben & Jerry’s parking lot,” my dad said through a mouthful of green beans.

“What were you doing at Ben & Jerry’s?” my mom asked suspiciously.

“Say, Joe,” my dad said, pretending not to hear Mom. “They’re taking bids on the library renovation. Gonna put one in?”

“Oh, yeah, thanks, Mr. Barnes, I did hear about it.” I smiled at my guy for his good manners. “But no, I’m not bidding on that one.”

“Why not?” my dad asked.

“Well, I’m pretty busy as it is,” Joe said. “Plus I’m working on my own place.”

“Which I’ve never seen,” I murmured.

“You will, you will,” Joe smiled. “But anyway, the library project is kind of a bi—I mean, you’ve got that whole board to answer to, and there’s a ton of paperwork you’ve got to fill out, cost estimates and schedules and stuff, so I just figured I’d pass. This ham is great, Mrs. Barnes.”

“Call me Nancy,” my mom sighed dreamily.

“Still, Joe, it’s indoor work over the winter,” my dad went on. “Guaranteed money, too, working for the town. Seems silly to pass up the chance.”

“I guess so,” Joe said mildly, winking at my mom. She sighed again.

I didn’t want to gang up on Joe, but Dad had a point. Carpentry was seasonal work on the Cape, and it did seem that Joe was a little remiss in not bidding for the library job. Still, maybe he had other projects lined up.

As Mom and I cleared the dishes, the guys went out in the yard to admire the new pile of topsoil Dad had ordered.

“So, Mom,” I said as we loaded the dishwasher. “What do you think?”

“About Joe? Not those wineglasses, honey. Those are hand-washables. Millie, he’s just darling.” She smiled warmly at me.

“Isn’t he?”

“Absolutely. And he always was such a friendly boy.” She removed a copper-bottomed pot I had recklessly put into the dishwasher and shook a little powdered cleanser into it. “You’ll lose the pretty copper shine if you let the dishwasher do all the work,” she said.

“I see.”

“So, Millie, honey, are things serious with you two?” She scoured vigorously.

“Well…we are seeing a lot of each other.”

“Mmm hmm.”

“And we get along just great.”

“Do you, honey? Wonderful, because that’s what’s important. Once the newness wears off, you need to be able to talk to each other.”

“Are you and Dad that way?” I asked.

“Oh, yes,” she said, flashing me a quick smile. “We have plenty to say to each other. And we still have a lot of fun together.”

I started to put a wooden spoon into the dishwasher, but Mom tut-tutted at me. “Nothing wooden, hon. Especially not those wood-handled knives.”

“Right.” I wondered why they had the damn appliance at all.

“Millie…” There was that cautionary Mom voice.

“Yes, Mom?”

“Well, honey, I hate to say anything, but, well…”

“What is it, Mom?”

“It’s just…well, Joe is a sweet boy and all…but I have to wonder if he’s really…enough for you.”

I was torn between love and irritation. “Oh, Mom. Joe is great! Don’t you think every parent wonders if a guy is good enough for their little girl?”

“No, not always. We always thought Trish was pretty damn lucky to get Sam.”

The pot I was wiping slipped out of my hands and bounced on the floor. I looked at my mom sharply, but she was scouring the sink, oblivious to my shock. “Well, there was that little matter of Danny,” I said, retrieving the gleaming pot.

“Yes, of course, but still…that’s not really the point. We’re talking about you and Joe.”

“He’s a good guy, Mom.”

“I know, sweetie. But is he good enough for you?”

I didn’t really know what to say. Mom wondering if a man, any man, was good enough for me…I’d have thought she’d have been planning my wedding by now. But it was sweet, kind of.

Dad had his turn next. Joe and Mom cleared the coffee cups and dessert plates (strawberry-rhubarb crumble, which I’d had to fake eat, because I had gained back three pounds since dating Joe and didn’t want to start the downward spiral into fatness again). From the patio, my dad and I could hear Mom and Joe laughing in the kitchen.

“So, baby, does he treat you okay?” Dad and I were sitting next to each other, and he picked up my hand.

“Sure, Dad. He’s great.” I smiled in the semidarkness and squeezed his big hand.

“Anything you want to tell your old man?”

“Um, like what, Daddy?” Like, I’m not a virgin? Like, It’s still not great but it’s getting better?

“Oh, I don’t know, punkin. Are you happy?”

“Sure, Daddy.” I squeezed his hand again to reassure him.

“You sure?”

“Yes, Dad. Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know. If Joe’s good to you, then that’s all I can ask, right?”

Why were my parents so…unthrilled? Joe was charming, gorgeous, polite, good-natured and had a blue-collar job. What more could they want?

Their lack of enthusiasm stuck in my mind. Was there anything wrong with Joe that I didn’t know about? No, of course not. I had a master’s degree in Joe. And maybe it was just natural to wonder about things as the first blush of our relationship wore off.

ONE SATURDAY, JOE AND I went fishing together. We drove up to P-town at the absolute crack of dawn to borrow his friend Sal’s boat. Of course I’d had to get up while it was still dark to beautify before Joe pulled into my driveway. On the ride up, I slumped against the truck window, staring out at the fog as Joe whistled softly, his three-legged dog curled between us. We parked on Macmillan Wharf, grabbed a cup of coffee from a nearby shop and walked down to Sal’s little power boat. Trying not to spill my precious coffee, I gingerly climbed onboard, failing to notice the dampness of the seats until it was seeping into my shorts. Tripod leaped in beside me, nuzzling my arm so that coffee sloshed out of my cup and into the bottom of the boat.

“Naughty puppy,” I said, stroking his head as Joe started the motor.

“You ready?” he said, smiling at me. I smiled back. He really was so delectable. The Cape Cod Tourism Council should feature him in their ads. He adeptly steered us out of Provincetown Harbor into the choppy bay. I turned and watched the picturesque, weather-beaten buildings of P-town’s shoreline grow smaller.

We didn’t talk as the boat zipped around Race Point and into deeper waters. Sal’s boat didn’t have much in the way of navigational equipment, or so it seemed to my anxious gaze. How would we find our way back? Just do a one-eighty? Like a lot of Cape Codders, I rarely went out to sea. That was for fishermen and tourists, not something that ever crossed my mind to do.

As the boat skipped across the choppy waves, I began to know why. If I fell overboard, would I be able to swim to shore? How cold was the water? Were there sharks underneath us? What about giant squid? As we crossed the wake of a bigger vessel, popping over the swells, my stomach rolled, and I clutched the seat.

“Isn’t this the best?” Joe called, the wind whipping his hair around his face.

“You bet!” I chirped, clenching my jaw against the bile that surged upward. Look at the horizon, I instructed myself. My stomach lurched again, making me grateful I hadn’t eaten breakfast. I breathed through my mouth and looked around the boat for flotation devices.

After about an hour, we stopped, and Joe scrabbled about.

“Ready to fish?” he asked.

“Oh,” I murmured, envisioning the effect of bait on my unsettled stomach. “Hey, let’s just sit for a minute and look around.” The boat rocked vigorously. Was this really safe? Normal? Tripod and Joe did not appear worried. Joe came over and wrapped his strong arms around me. He felt solid and warm and safe, and my seasickness released its grip somewhat.

“Lie down, Tripod,” Joe commanded, and his dog obeyed instantly. “You okay?” Joe asked me, kissing my hair. I smiled.

“I’m great.”

The only sounds were the wind and the waves slapping at the sides of the boat. “You know what?” Joe asked.

“What?”

“This is the longest I ever dated anybody.”

“Really?” I answered, remembering to sound surprised.

“It’s the truth.” He kissed my neck, and my heart swelled. I couldn’t be wrong about Joe. We would be perfect together soon enough. Soon, that hidden, heroic side of Joe would emerge once more, and I’d know that I had been right all those years. Pretty soon he’d be saying the L word, buying a ring, and we would be perfectly happy together.

“What about you, Millie? Ever been serious with anybody?”

“Well…” I pretended to muse. The truth of my dating history would never pass my lips, not in front of Joe Carpenter, at any rate. “No, I guess not really serious. Being in medical school and residency and all that…”

“Right.” He didn’t say any else about our relationship, and I decided not to push for more tender words. We were quiet for another minute, as Joe seemed to have exhausted his curiosity about my love life, and then I asked a question my stalking had been unable to answer.

“Joe, how did Tripod lose his leg?” At the mention of his name, Tripod wagged his tail vigorously.

“Oh, that.” Joe stood up and started rummaging in one of the coolers. “Well,” he smiled sheepishly, “I hit him.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I know. It was pretty bad. He was a stray, roaming around, eating trash and all that. I was driving home, and I guess I wasn’t paying attention, had a couple of beers and all, and I just…hit him. Took him to the vet and felt so guilty that I adopted him.” Another sheepish grin.

“Joe! You can’t drink and drive! You could kill someone.”

“I know,” he said, then he began baiting the hook with a small fish. I tasted bile and looked away.

“That’s how Sam’s parents were killed, you know,” I said harshly. The memory of Sam, bent in grief at his parents’ funeral, punched me in the heart. I had cried myself sick that weekend, and I’d barely known them.

“Really?” Joe’s eyebrows raised.

“Yes! Don’t you remember? We were in high school, and Sam had just come back from Notre Dame…. It was on the news and everything, Joe. Half the town went to their funeral.”

Joe obviously didn’t remember. Still, he nodded. “That sucks,” he said.

“It more than sucks, Joe!” I snapped.

“Okay, okay, Millie. You can relax, okay?” He grinned, and I looked away. “Millie,” he continued in a more serious voice, “don’t worry. I learned my lesson. Okay? Forgive me?”

Let it go, Millie. Don’t ruin this day. It was a long time ago, anyway. I took a deep breath and looked at the endless blue sea. “Just don’t ever do it again, okay?”

“Of course not. Like I said, I learned my lesson.” He squeezed my hand, and my anxiety melted a little. I managed to smile at him, and he kissed the tip of my nose. “Here you go,” Joe said. He cast into the water and spun out the line, then handed me the pole.

We didn’t say anything else for a long time, just watched the water, the breeze ruffling our hair, the waves slapping the side of the boat.

“I can’t think of a better way to spend the day,” Joe said. “Being out on the water with my honey.” He turned and gave me the full power of his green eyes and gorgeous smile, and whatever concern was in my heart melted. Honey. He called me honey. I was Joe’s honey. Even if he had done stupid things in the past, he called me honey.

For the next hour or so, I commanded myself to have fun, to enjoy this lovely day with Joe. Unfortunately, I was undeniably seasick, and of course, I’d forgotten sunscreen. Though it had been cloudy when we’d started out, it was sunny on the water. Joe didn’t have sunscreen (it would be so unmanly!), but he found a foul-smelling Red Sox cap, which I dubiously donned, hoping I looked gamine but fearing otherwise.

We trolled around aimlessly, catching nothing. I had only been fishing a handful of times with my dad and had no interest in actually reeling in a cold, flopping creature. Occasionally Joe would check to see if the bait was still attached, then toss the lines back into the frothy wake, where they were carried out to the mysterious depths. I tried not to stand because each time I did, I staggered drunkenly, nearly falling on my backside.

“Joe, how deep is the water out here?”

“Oh, hell, I don’t know.”

“What if we fell overboard?” I asked. “Are there any life vests?”

“We’re not going to fall in, silly Millie,” he said, playfully pulling the brim of my cap down over my face. “Even if you did, I’d jump in and save you.”

“Thank you, kind sir. But where are the life vests?”

“Oh, they’re here somewhere. Maybe under those seats.” He suddenly looked up ahead at the horizon, then leaped to kill our motor.

“What is it? A tidal wave?” I asked, going to stand next to him, grabbing the waistband of his jeans for safety.

“Shh.”

Tripod began to growl. “Shit, Joe,” I whispered. “What is it?”

The answer revealed itself as a plume of water exploded into the air. I let out a scream and held onto Joe for dear life.

Not fifty feet from our boat, a whale surfaced. We glimpsed its huge, glistening, barnacled back and massive tail as it dove again. To our left, another whale crested with a spray of water and air. Tripod barked excitedly, the fur on his back standing on end as he hopped onto the seat.

“Let’s get out of here!” I yelled, tugging at Joe’s shirt. “Come on!”

“Millie, settle down! Look! It’s great!” There was a great splash of water just in front of us as one of the whales slapped its tail. We were so close that droplets of water tickled our faces.

“Joe, they’re going to tip us over! Please!” Tears of panic pricked my eyes.

“They’re not going to capsize us. Just watch.” Joe laughed at the display, ignoring my distress. Barking, Tripod jumped onto the bow of the boat.

“Joe, Tripod’s going to fall in! Get him! Tripod!”

“Get off, Tripod. And Millie, calm down.” Tripod obeyed. I didn’t.

We were surrounded by whales, how many I had no clue. Every time I saw a spout of water or heard that whoosh of air, I thought of Moby Dick ramming the Pequod. Damn my English professor for making me read that book! We were in the middle of the freaking Atlantic Ocean, and I didn’t even have a life vest on! Huge mammals surrounded us, any one of whom could easily overturn our stupid little boat. Tripod would drown. I would drown. Joe would undoubtedly be rescued by mermaids seduced by his beauty.

When a whale actually breached into the air and slapped down, rocking our boat with its power, I began to cry.

“Oh, hey, come on, Millie,” Joe said. “We’re safe. Don’t cry.”

“Joe,” I sobbed, shaking, “I really want to go home.”

“Oh. All right. Okay, we’ll go.”

Finally, he started up the motor, and with a last regretful glance at the whale pod, he turned the boat around. “Too bad,” he couldn’t help saying.

Shaking, I sat down and clutched the seat, still crying. Damn Joe! Couldn’t he see that I was terrified? Why did he have to wait until they were practically jumping on top of us to leave?

“You okay?” he called, glancing back at me as he steered us.

Go screw yourself, I thought, wiping my eyes with my arm. He did something at the controls, then came back to sit next to me.

“Aw, Millie, don’t cry. Come on. Wasn’t that great?”

“No, Joe, it wasn’t! That was terrifying!”

“They weren’t going to hurt us.”

“How do you know? Are you a marine biologist? A cetacean expert? We’re just in this tiny little boat…”

“Okay, Millie, calm down. It’s all right. The big bad whales are way behind us now.”

“Oh, screw you,” I said, giving him a halfhearted shove. He smiled back. “You’re an ass,” I added.

“You’re cute when you’re mad,” he said.

“I’m also seasick.”

“Very cute.”

“Not when I’m puking.”

“I guess I’ll have to wait and see.”

Oh, damn. That smile could end wars.

“I’m sorry,” he said, tucking some hair behind my ears.

“Hmmf,” I said, pouting.

“I’ll take you to my house when we get home,” he cajoled. “I know you’ve been wanting to see it. I’ll even cook you dinner. Okay? Don’t be mad anymore, Millie.”

How could I resist? I couldn’t.

BACK ON LAND, I STARTED to feel better. We drove down Route 6, not talking much. I wanted to stop home and shower, feeling sweaty and salty, but curiosity about Joe’s house outweighed my need for cleanliness. Digger would be fine, as I’d asked Danny to swing by and let him out for me.

We trundled down Joe’s washed-out little lane, locust and bayberry branches scraping along the sides of the truck. At last we pulled into Joe’s sandy driveway. As soon as we stopped, Tripod jumped neatly out Joe’s window and disappeared into the yard. Joe turned to me, fiddling with his keys.

“Millie, I know you didn’t exactly love it out there on the water, but I had a great time with you today. You were a really good sport.”

I melted. Warmth began at my toes and flowed upward, suffusing me with love. “Oh, Joe, I had a good time, too. Being with you, I mean.”

“Good.” He slid across the seat and kissed me, long and slow and hot. The boy could definitely kiss. On trembling legs, I got out of the truck.

Of course, I’d seen Joe’s house from the outside, but I had to pretend I hadn’t. I exclaimed over the funky shape of the house—not quite a Cape, not a ranch, not a farmhouse—as I followed Joe up the path to the back door.

“Now I wasn’t exactly expecting you, so it might be a little messy,” he warned me. “But I’m glad you’re here.” Another kiss. His hands wandered down my back, and more heat threaded through me. I had a feeling that our sex life was about to go from mediocre to unbelievable in about half an hour, and it would be about time.

He opened the door and let me in. The blood drained from my face.

Might be a little messy. A little messy. The words echoed in my head.

The large room I surveyed was under construction. Most of it was framed out, but not in a new, expectant way. In a way that said, “A few years ago, somebody started doing this to me, but I don’t know what happened.” The wooden studs were grayish-brown, not the creamy-blond of new lumber. Pink insulation sagged wearily between them, defeated. The floor, at least the part that could be seen, consisted of warped sheets of old plywood. A stained, bluish-gray square of carpeting, edges curling and frayed, covered the living-room area. From a liver-colored couch with a tear in the back drifted a very unpleasant damp, moldy smell. I forced myself to close my gaping mouth.

“I still have a lot of work to do,” Joe explained, tossing his keys on a…table? No, a giant wooden spool, the kind that holds cable or wire, a big, rough thing lurking before the couch. It was covered with two pizza boxes, a couple of beer bottles and old newspapers. Oblivious to my horror, Joe wandered into the kitchen, a crude area containing a fridge, stove covered in dirty pots, and a huge black plastic trash barrel filled to the brim. Two sawhorses supported another sheet of plywood. The kitchen table, I presumed. It was covered with a half-dozen cereal boxes and some cans, as Joe apparently had no cupboards. A bare lightbulb swayed from a thick wire in the middle of the room. Perched precariously on a stack of crumbling Sheetrock sat an enormous, early-model microwave.

“I don’t have too much time to work on it, but it’s getting there. Little by little. You want a beer or anything?”

“Oh…uh, no, I’m okay.” Dazed, I tried to take it all in. Through a partially opened door, I glimpsed Joe’s bedroom: a mattress on the floor, a tangle of sheets and blankets wadded at the bottom, clothes scattered on the floor. Underwear. Socks. Paint-smeared jeans.

There was a metallic clatter, and pain shot through my foot—I had stubbed my toe on a toolbox lying in the middle of the floor.

“So what are you in the mood for?” Joe asked blithely. “Whoops, before you answer that, let me see what I have.” He opened the fridge and I smothered a scream. Mold-covered, graying Chinese food boxes. An orange, so old it was no longer round, had sunken in on its own weight. A few grease-stained paper bags held God-knew-what.

“Some of this stuff doesn’t look too good,” Joe murmured, tossing the Chinese food cartons into the huge trash can. I leaped out of the way. My bladder ached after all day on the boat, but I would kill myself before going into his bathroom.

“Do you live alone, Joe?” I squeaked, wondering if there was someone else to blame for this horror.

“Oh, sure. This is my mom’s house, really, but she moved off Cape when she got remarried a couple years ago, so it’s just me.” He closed the fridge and put his arms around me. “So, okay, it’s messy, but what do you think?”

Disgusting. Repellant. Abhorrent. Unhealthful. “Oh, well, I think it’s got potential.” I swallowed and forced a smile.

“That’s just it, isn’t it? It’s got potential! One of these days I’ll finish it up. But right now, you know what I’d really like to do?”

“Move?”

He threw back his golden head and laughed. “No, not move. Be with my Millie.” He kissed me, and I was too numb with shock to resist or respond. Taking my hand, he started to lead me to the bedroom. I planted my heels like a mule and stopped. There was no way on earth I was going to lie down in this house.

“You know what?” I said, scrabbling for a distraction. “Um, I—I’d like to see the back. Is that a deck out there?”

“Yup. Sure, let’s go outside.”

Bravo, Millie. At least the smell wasn’t so pervasive out on the deck. I sucked in the pine-scented air and looked around. Joe’s scrubby little yard was enclosed by bayberry, cedars and dwarfed oak trees. I stared down at that yard as if it were a lifeboat and I was standing on the deck of the Titanic.

“So, Millie,” Joe whispered, kissing me on the neck from behind. “Seen enough? Want to go back inside?”

“No!” I whirled around. “I mean, um, let’s go down into the yard. It’s cute.” Looking a little confused, Joe nonetheless followed me down the rickety stairs. Just tell him that you don’t feel like fooling around. Tell him you want to go home and shower. Tell him his house is disgusting. But somehow, I couldn’t bring myself to say any of those things.

In the deepening evening, in the relative privacy of the yard, we could hear the sounds of his neighbors, but we really couldn’t see anything. And nobody could see us.

“Let’s go to bed, honey,” my honey said, wrapping his arms around me. He gave me another world-class kiss, one that I would have enjoyed greatly had I not been so focused on my escape.

“Joe,” I murmured against his mouth.

“Hmm?”

“I’ve never, you know…” He was kissing my neck.

“Never what?”

“I’ve never made love outside.”

He pulled back to look at me, a grin crossing his face. “We can fix that.”

Just fix it fast, I thought. I wanted desperately to be in my own house, in my immaculate bathroom, showering off the salt and whale spit.

Joe’s hands slipped under my shirt and neatly removed it. Amazingly, as much as his hands knew what they were doing, as beautiful as he was, as long as I had wanted him, I found myself faking it. A few minutes later, we were lying on a small patch of grass under a cedar, and all I could think was hurry up. Finally, he moaned into my neck and sagged against me, rolling over so I was snuggled against his side. Okay, let’s go home, I thought.

“God, Millie, that was fantastic,” Joe murmured.

“Mmm.” Wondering how much longer it would be till he took me home, I stroked his silky hair for a minute, then turned my head. I shrieked, unbelieving. Joe jumped.

“What? What?”

“Jesus, Joe!” I shrilled, leaping to my feet and grabbing my shirt against me. “Shit!”

Clearly evident in our post-coital resting place was an unmistakably healthy crop of poison ivy.