July 1.

The desk calendar hung right next to the photo of Dana.

July 1.

Twelve years ago today they walked down the aisle at the Unitarian church in Arlington center followed by a reception at Habitat on Belmont Hill. It was a glorious day and a glorious wedding, and they danced their first dance as Mr. and Mrs. Stephen Markarian to "As Time Goes By."

Well, time went by, more than a decade, and according to national statistics they were supposed to be living in their happy suburban Carleton home with two point something kids and entering middle age with grace and contentment. Instead, Dana lived by herself in their happy suburban home with her new face and new prospects while Steve bumped around a monastic four-room flat with zero point zero kids and not much else.

The good news-and the only good news-was that nearly three weeks had passed since he had last consumed alcohol. It was the one thing that kept him going because he tied that to the belief that if he conquered this demon, he might win back Dana.

"Hey."

Steve turned and his heart gave a kick. Neil was standing behind him.

"I'm on my way out, but I want to let you know I got your messages."

His face was an implacable pink blank. The slender end of a toothpick stuck out of the corner of his mouth. It had been a week since the break-in, and Neil seemed more drawn and his eyes slightly muddy, as if he had not gotten much sleep.

Steve stood up. "What can I say? I'm sorry." Steve held out his hand, uncertain if Neil would take it or spit at it. And for a moment that seemed to last a week, his hand posed in the air while Neil moved his eyes from Steve's to his hand. Then he took it.

"You did what you had to do."

"It was nice of you not to blow my head off."

Neil nodded. "Until Dacey showed, I was convinced you were there to make a plant."

"We're even."

Neil had not filed a complaint for their unwarranted creeping, and Steve did not file a report that Neil pulled his weapon on a superior officer. Neither would have accomplished anything but a lot of administrative wrangling and lost time on their cases.

"How's the Farina thing going?"

"It's going."

Even though Neil had been cleared, Steve did not want to compromise the integrity of the investigation even within the department. Also, over the last several days, Steve had, in total confidentiality, contacted Neil's superior at the Gloucester P.D. to determine if Neil had an alibi for the other cases. Luckily, as it turned out, during the estimated time window of Corrine Novak's murder, he was on duty with other police officers investigating the vandalizing of a local high school by some townie kids. And on the evening when Marla Murphy was killed in Wellfleet, Neil was at a conference in St. Louis. His whereabouts on the other two cases could not be pinpointed, but Steve was satisfied that Neil had nothing to do with the murders.

"I guess it's not official, but I hear it's gone serial."

So much for tight lips. Admitting what they both knew might convince Neil that Steve's suspicion was dead. It would also serve as a gesture to make up. "Yeah. Got four so far."

"Any suspects?"

Steve shook his head.

"Establish a motive?"

"Nothing yet."

Neil shook his head. "So, what have you been doing?"

"Diddling with the files and hoping we get him before he gets the next one."

"It's that bad?"

"Yeah."

Neil made a move to leave. "How are things with Dana?"

"The same. How about Lily?"

"She's making progress."

"Good to hear that."

Neil put out his hand and Steve took it. "l wish I could make it up to you."

"You can," Neil said. "You get the son of a bitch, let me have five minutes with him."

"You're on."

72.

It was a beautiful July Fourth day-clear, dry, and mild: perfect weather to celebrate Independence Day and to watch the fireworks later that evening.

Dana was ready and waiting at four. But instead of the black BMW pulling up her driveway, a shiny limousine appeared with a uniformed driver and nobody else. He introduced himself as Max and said that Dr. Monks apologized for not coming by in person, but that he would drive her to their rendezvous. He walked her to the limo, where he retrieved a cell phone and handed it to her.

"Dana, it's Aaron. I apologize, but I got held up in town. Max will bring you here."

"Okay. And where exactly is here?"

"You'll see, and bring an appetite."

She handed Max the cell phone. "He wouldn't say where we're going."

Max smiled. "I think you'll be pleased." And he let her in the car.

The interior had a plastic partition dividing the front and rear seats to ensure privacy. As they pulled away, the driver clicked on some classical music and Dana settled back, thinking how her life had suddenly taken on some adventure.

They headed onto the Mystic Valley Parkway, which took them to 93 South toward Boston. Because the air was dry, the city skyline stood out in stereoscopic clarity. Her guess was they were meeting at one of the trendy new places in the South End. But instead of taking the Storrow Drive exit, the driver went straight over the Zakim Bridge and into the tunnel and then took one of the exits that brought them onto Atlantic Avenue.

After a few minutes, they turned into Waterboat Marina near the New England Aquarium. In the distance she spotted Anthony's Pier 4, where she and Steve had gone in the early years of their marriage and where they always got a window seat because Steve was a cop.

Max drove until he could go no farther. At the gate was Aaron Monks, dressed in a navy double-breasted sport coat with a white shirt and light gray pants. He smiled broadly as he watched Dana get out. Max flashed her a two-fingered salute and drove away.

"You look gorgeous," he said. Then he snapped on his reading glasses and put his fingers to her chin, turning her face to study it in the sunlight. "Perfect," and he gave her a kiss on each cheek.

"Thank you," she said.

His eyes lit up as he regarded her. "And you're pleased with the results?"

"Of course. But why all the mystery?"

He took her arm. "Actually, no mystery. I was running late and thought it best to send a car." He opened the gate and led her down the ramp to the walkway that took them past dozens of beautiful boats and to the end where a huge white yacht sat that must have been sixty feet long with a high flying bridge surmounted by radar antennae and other electronic fixtures.

"Is Donald Trump in town?"

"Donald Trump?"

He didn't seem to appreciate the joke, and she felt herself flush. "You mean, this is yours?"

"When I get the chance."

He took her hand and led her up the gangplank to the deck. "Welcome aboard the Fair Lady."

The wide aft deck opened into an elegant main salon done in cherry with built-in beige leather sofas and chrome appointments. Next to a dinette area rose a cherry-and-chrome spiral staircase to the flying bridge. The main salon connected to four elegant staterooms plus crew quarters, also in cherry with plush beige carpeting and colorful accents. The cherry continued into the galley, a bright space with black marble counters and stainless-steel appliances.

"It looks like a Ritz Hotel suite on water." She had to wonder about all the nose jobs it took.

"Thank you. When I can get away, it's a lot of fun."

He led her through the salons and into the steering station in the forward deck where two men were checking a nautical chart. "This is Cho and Pierre. They'll be at the helm this evening."

She shook their hands. Both men had coffee-colored skin and looked Polynesian and spoke with an accent that she could not place. Later Aaron would tell her that both men had Asian and Caribbean blood and were from the West Indies. They were resident surgeons in a fellowship training program allied with the Institute of Reconstructive Surgery that Aaron headed up. They would be accompanying him on his vacation to Martinique next month.

They returned to the aft deck where a table was set for two and a Boston caterer had laid out trays of shrimp, chicken cordon bleu, meat turnovers, cheeses, and fruit. There were also two fluted glasses and a bottle of champagne in a silver bucket.

The night was warm with a gentle breeze off the water. They sat across from each other at the elegantly set table. In the thickening golden light of the sun, Aaron Monks looked elegant in his blue and white.

Cho and Pierre pulled the boat into the harbor.

"How long will it take to reach Martinique?"

"We'll do it in about ten days. We could do it faster, but there's no rush."

"Sounds wonderful."

"Even more so when we're down there. Have you been to Martinique?"

"I've been to Jamaica, but not Martinique."

"Maybe someday you will. In the meantime..." He poured the champagne. "It seems appropriate that it's Independence Day." He raised his glass to hers. "To the new you and freedom from the old."

She thanked him and clicked his glass.

While they chattered, she could see how pleased he was with the results because he could not stop staring at her, his pupils looking permanently dilated.

Nonetheless, she felt a tiny prick at the back of her mind. Perhaps it was the expectation that she was starting all over, that these procedures were tantamount to a rebirth-as if the needles, nips, tucks, and nose job meant she was officially divorced from her past, that like some exotic reptile she had molted her old self and was scuttling off in pride to a new dawn. The rhinoplasty was an improvement, and she was delighted. And perhaps it would take time for her interior self to catch up. But she felt like the same person inside.

Over the next few hours, Pierre and Cho took them for a sunset cruise around the harbor, passing some of the many islands that Aaron named and gave brief histories of, including Kingdom Head where, he said, in the seventeenth century a woman was executed for witchcraft. Rumor had it that her ashes and ancient Celtic ruins lay buried somewhere on the island. He was very knowledgeable about the seafaring history of Boston. He didn't joke or laugh much, and she concentrated on his stories and resisted trying to lighten the discourse that bordered on a lecture.

But that was fine, and it was a glorious night with a magnificent view of Boston over the pearly lavender water and under a cloudless indigo sky. You wanted some romance back in your life, she told herself. Well here's one hell of a start.

Dana two.

The moon rose full on the harbor, and the setting sun silhouetted the skyline in flaming reds. Along the waterfront, buildings glowed like so many jewels floating on a black expanse. In a couple of hours the sky would be exploding in fireworks.

"They're still talking about the suicide of that professor fellow in the news," Aaron said. "That it was an act of confession. I imagine your husband must feel some relief in that."

"I think he is. But it's been bad press for the department, as you can imagine."

"Of course. But maybe it's behind them."

She took a sip of champagne and wondered what Steve was doing at the moment. Probably poring over depressing crime reports. He'd love to be out here since he had a half-mystical yearning for the sea and always wanted to own a boat. Last year at this time, they picnicked on the Charles with Marie Dacey and her husband John and her friend Jane Graham and her husband Jack. Then they walked up the river to watch the fireworks.

"Well, I wish him the best."

She suddenly felt a jolt. "Oh, my God."

"What?"

"I forgot something." She reached for her handbag and removed her cell phone. "Excuse me," she said, getting up and moving away from the table to talk privately.

"I'm afraid you're not going to have much luck out here."

He was right, they were beyond range for a connection. She had gotten so caught up in the unveiling as Steve put it that it she had forgotten that tonight they had a date to talk. Damn!

"If it's an emergency, we can use the ship-to-shore radio."

She imagined him getting an emergency call from the coast guard that his wife was at sea with someone else. "No, that's okay." Steve was probably at the house calling her cell phone. He'd hang out there for an hour then head home, feeling jilted just as he was hoping to work things out with her. She felt awful.

"Are you sure?" Aaron asked. "We can go back in."

They were at the outer reaches of the harbor, near the Boston lighthouse island. It would take an hour to reach the marina. And even if they got within calling range, Steve would have left, resigned to the fact that she had forgotten. "No. It's okay," she said, knowing that it wasn't okay. But there was nothing she could do.

I'm sorry, Steve.

Later, under an outrageously starry sky, the fireworks show started.

It began with the faint strains of the Boston Symphony Orchestra in the Hatch Shell playing "The 1812 Overture," followed by a fusillade of cannon fire that sent up a roar from the crowd gathered along the Charles, filling the Esplanade and the banks between which floated the huge barges where the pyrotechnics were staged.