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legally married. Emotionally, he was afraid to talk about marriage, afraid that to suggest limiting Gail’s freedom might make her regard him as a threat to that freedom.
    Sanders had always thought of himself as a normally sensual person, but in those first months with Gail he discovered a reserve of raw lust so enormous that he occasionally wondered if he might be certified as a sex maniac.
    To Gail, sex was a vehicle for expressing everything-delight, anger, hunger, love, frustration, annoyance, even outrage. As an alcoholic can find any excuse for a drink, so Gail could make anything, from the first fallen leaf of autumn to the anniversary of Richard Nixon’s resignation, a reason for making love.
    The day Sanders’ divorce became final, he decided to ask Gail to marry him. He had examined his motives, and they seemed logical, if old-fashioned: he adored her; he wanted to live with her; and he needed the assurance-however symbolic-that she loved him enough to commit herself to him.
    But behind the curtain of logic there also lurked a shadow of challenge. She was young, widely courted, and, by her own admission, averse to marriage. If he proposed and she accepted, he would have achieved a certain conquest.
    He was terrified of, but prepared for, rejection, and he wanted to phrase his proposal in such a way that she couldn’t take it as an all-or-nothing request. He wanted her to know that if she declined marriage, he would rather continue their current arrangement than stop seeing her. He intended to remind her of their several areas of compatibility. He compiled a list of twelve points, ending with the undeniable fact that it made financial sense for them to live in one apartment instead of two.
    He never got a chance to present his brief. They were having dinner at an Italian restaurant on Third Avenue, and after they had ordered, Sanders took the divorce papers from his pocket and held them up to Gail.
    “These came today,” he said. He picked an anchovy from the antipasto plate.
    “Wonderful!” she said. “Let’s get married.”
    Stunned, Sanders dropped the anchovy into his glass of wine. “What?”
    “Let’s get married. You’re free. I’m free. I’ve gotten everyone else out of my system. We love each other. It makes sense, doesn’t it?”
    “Sure, yeah,” Sanders stammered. “It’s just that…”
    “I know. You’re too old for me. You think I’m a sex fiend and that you’ll never be able to keep up with me.
     
    You don’t have any money any more. But I have a job. We’ll make out.” She paused. “Well, what do you say?”
    They decided on Bermuda for their honeymoon because neither had been there and because it had good tennis courts, good swimming, and good scuba diving.

IV
    The lifeguard stood at the water’s edge, holding the Boston Whaler on its dolly. “Going after more forks and knives?” he said as the Sanderses approached.
    “Sure,” said David, “and we’ll look for some of those artillery shells you mentioned.”
    “You get a pretty good price for the brass. But be careful. From what I hear, they’re still live.”
    They slipped the boat into the water, loaded their gear, and shoved off. As they cruised toward the reef, Sanders asked Gail to take the wheel. He took a small flashlight from his pocket and sat on the forward seat.
    “What’s that for?” Gail asked.
    “To see in the cave where that ampule was.”
    “It’s not waterproof. It’ll short out in a second.”
    “Watch.” Sanders took a plastic sandwich bag from another pocket, put the light into the bag, made a knot in the open end, and pulled it tight, then touched a switch on the light. It blinked on. “That should last.”
    “Genius,” Gail said. “Crude, but genius.”
    They found a niche in the reef, guided the boat through, and backed around until the bow faced the shore.
    Gail stood on the forward seat, ready to throw the anchor overboard, and sighted along her arms, reassuring herself