The water was building in height and speed. She could hear Izzy in front of her, calm and upbeat. “And there, now, aren’t we pretty much through? How about that. ‘Going to run all night, going to run all—’”

Beth looked up as Izzy stopped singing. She thought, distantly, I’m sure the car wasn’t that far in the water. And then Izzy was hauling at the eldest girl’s waistband, her fingers fumbling as she tried to release the knot in her scarf, and Beth suddenly understood why she had stopped singing, her look of panic, and half threw her own charge onto the bank as she grabbed at her belt and tried to release the buckle.

Hurry up, Beth! Undo it!

Her fingers turned to thumbs. Panic rose in her throat. She felt Izzy’s hands grabbing at the belt, lifting it so that it was clear of water, felt the ominous pressure building as it tightened around her waist—and then, just as she felt herself being pulled forward, click, the belt was slipping through her fingers, and Izzy was hauling at her with a strength she’d had no idea she had and suddenly, whoosh, the big green car was half submerged and moving down the river at an unlikely speed, away from them, on the end of its rope.

They scrambled to their feet, stumbling up the hill toward the higher ground, the children’s hands tight in their own, their eyes transfixed by what was unfolding before them. The rope tightened, the car bobbed, briefly tethered, and then, faced with an unstoppable weight, and with an audible fraying sound, the rope, defeated by sheer weight and physics, snapped.

Mrs. Brady’s Oldsmobile, custom-painted in racing green, with a cream-leather interior all the way from Detroit, turned over elegantly, like a giant seal revealing its belly. As the five of them watched, dripping and shivering, it rode away from them, half submerged, on the black tide, turned a corner, and the last of its chrome bumper disappeared around the bend.

Nobody spoke. And then the baby held up her arms and Izzy stooped to pick her up. “Well,” she said, after a minute. “I guess that’s me grounded for the next ten years.”

And Beth, who was not known for great shows of emotion, but suddenly propelled by an impulse she barely understood, reached over and pulled Izzy to her and kissed the side of Izzy’s face, a huge, audible smacker, so that the two of them began the slow walk back to town a little pink and, to the confusion of the small girls, prone to abrupt and seemingly inexplicable bursts of laughter.

* * *

• • •

   Done!

The last of the books were tipped into Fred’s living room. The door was closed and Fred and Alice regarded the mountainous pile that had taken over his once-tidy parlor, then looked up at each other.

“Every single one,” Alice marveled. “We saved every single one.”

“Yup. We’ll be open for business before you know it.”

He set the kettle on the stove, and peered into his larder. He reached in, pulled out some eggs and cheese and put them on the counter. “So . . . I was thinking you could rest here awhile. Maybe have some food. Nobody’ll be going too far today.”

“I guess there’s no point heading back out while it’s like this.” She put her hand to her head, rubbing at her wet hair.

They knew of the dangers, but for that moment, Alice couldn’t help but see the water, running past them down the road below, as her secret ally, halting the normal flow of the world. Nobody could judge her for resting at Fred’s, could they? She had only been moving books, after all.

“If you want to borrow a dry shirt there’s one hanging on the stairs.”

She headed upstairs, peeled off her wet sweater, dried herself with a towel and put on the shirt, feeling the soft flannel against her damp skin as she buttoned it down the front. There was something about sliding into a man’s shirt—Fred’s shirt—that made her breath catch in her throat. She could not rid herself of the feeling of his thumb on her skin, the image of his eyes burning so intently into her own, as if he could see the very core of her. Every movement now seemed loaded with the echo of it, every casual glance or word between them filled with some new intent.

She walked slowly back down the stairs toward the books, feeling the heat rise in her, as it did every time she thought of his skin touching hers. When she looked round for him, he was watching her.

“You look prettier in that shirt than I do.”

She felt herself color and glanced away.

“Here.” He handed her a mug of hot coffee and she closed her hands around it, allowing the heat to seep in, grateful for something to focus on.

Fred moved around her, shifting books, then reaching into the log basket to load the fire. She watched the muscles of his forearms tighten as he worked, the steel in his thighs as he crouched down, checking the flames. How had nobody else in this town noticed the beautiful economy in the way Frederick Guisler moved, the grace with which he used his limbs, the wiry muscles that shifted underneath his skin?

    Let the flickering flame of your soul play all about me

 That into my limbs may come the keenness of fire . . .

He straightened up and turned to her and she knew he must see it then, the naked truth of everything she felt, writ large upon her face. Today, she thought suddenly, no rules applied. They were in a vortex, a place of their own, away from water and misery and the travails of the world outside. She took a step toward him as if she were magnetized, stepping over the books without looking down, and placed her mug upon the mantel, her eyes still on his. They were inches from each other now, the heat of the blazing fire against their bodies, their eyes locked. She wanted to speak but she didn’t have a clue what to say. She just knew that she wanted him to touch her again, to feel his skin on her lips, under her fingertips. She wanted to know what everyone else seemed to know so casually and easily, secrets whispered in darkened rooms, intimacy that went far beyond words. She felt consumed by it. His eyes searched hers and softened, his breath quickening, and she knew then that she had him. That this time it would be different. He reached down and took her hand and she felt something shoot through her, molten and urgent, and then he raised it, and she heard her breath catch.

And then he said: “I’m going to stop this here, Alice.”

It took a second before she registered what he was saying, and the shock was so great it almost winded her.

Alice, you are too impulsive.

“It’s not that—”

“I need to leave.” She turned, humiliated. How could she have been so foolish? Tears brimmed in her eyes and she stumbled over the books and cursed loudly as she almost lost her footing.

“Alice.”

Where was her coat? Did he hang it somewhere? “My coat. Where’s my coat?”