``I suppose it has to do with the property,'' Mark had said over the telephone when they had discussed their receipt of the letters. Not until the words had been spoken did Abel suddenly see the old house and the insistent sea, and feel his contrition blotted out in one shameful moment of covetousness. He and Mark were the last of the family, and there lay the Cape Ann property which had seemed to have no end, stretching from horizon to horizon, in those golden days of summer.

Now Abel turned his head to look at his brother. Mark held the wheel loosely, but his fingers curved around it in a purposeful way and the deliberate set of his body spoke plainly of the figure he'd make in the years to come. His sandy hair was already beginning to thin and recede at the sides, and Abel looked quickly away. Mark easily looked years older than himself, settled, his world comfortably categorized.

The vacation traffic was becoming heavier as they approached the sea. ``She didn't mention bringing Myra,'' Mark said, maneuvering the car into the next lane. ``She's probably getting old -- crotchety, I mean -- and we figured uh-uh, better not. They've never met, you know. But Myra wouldn't budge without an express invitation. I feel kind of bad about it.'' He gave Abel a quick glance and moved closer to the wheel, hugging it to him, and Abel caught this briefest of allusions to guilt.

``I imagine the old girl hasn't missed us much,'' Mark added, his eyes on the road. Abel ignored the half expressed bid for confirmation. He smiled. It was barely possible that his brother was right.