“So,” Clay said as he walked down the supermarket aisle next to Gina, “what do we need for this Indian feast?” He couldn’t recall ever grocery shopping with Terri, and that struck him as both strange and sad. He was enjoying the sense of domesticity with Gina.

“Probably many things we can’t find here,” Gina said, stopping in front of the spices. She turned her head from side to side, surveying the possibilities, her hair shining in the overhead lights. “I’ll just have to do my best.”

“Well, since you’re the only one of us who’s ever eaten Indian food, you can fake it. We won’t know the difference.”

She reached for a jar of turmeric and put it in the shopping cart, then studied the rows of spices again. “These are so expensive,” she said.

“Don’t worry about that.”

She glanced at him. “I’m not even paying for my share of the utilities, Clay. I win money and I lose it. You and Lacey—”

“You’re cooking dinner for us.” He touched her arm, something he was aware he did often. “You’ve cooked dinner a few times already. More than we’ve cooked for you, that’s for sure. So get what you need and don’t worry about the price, okay?”

She shrugged and reached for another jar. “If you say so,” she said. “Thank you.”

He liked this side of her. Seeing her concentrate on something altogether different than the Fresnel lens was refreshing. For once, she didn’t have the gloomy, desperate, “I need to raise the lens from the bottom of the ocean” look about her. “That girl has a one-track mind,” Henry had said to Clay a couple of days ago on their drive home from Shorty’s, and Clay knew he was right.

“I think this will do it,” she said, putting another jar in the cart. She took a step back from the spices to scan the other products in the aisle. She was wearing a T-shirt he had not seen her in before, a royal-blue V neck that gently hugged her breasts and made it hard for him to tear his eyes away from her. “Now we need some basmati rice and some chicken,” she said.

“Three aisles down for the rice,” he said, unsure if she would be able to find “basmati” rice there or not. He was not certain how it differed from the usual variety.

Clay pushed the cart as they walked toward the end of the aisle.

“Are you diving with Kenny this weekend?” she asked. The question sounded odd and out of the blue, but he supposed she was just making conversation.

“I hope so,” he said. “We want to dive a U-boat that sunk off Nag’s Head during the war.”

“The U-85,” Gina said, and he looked at her, amazed.

“How’d you know that?” he asked.

She smiled. “I told you. I’m an old history buff. I’m surprised you haven’t dived it yet.”

“I have. But not in a couple of years.”

For a moment, she didn’t speak. Then she said, “Maybe one of these days you could dive near the lighthouse and see if you could find the lens.”

So much for his assumption that the lens was not on her mind this afternoon. He shrugged. “Maybe,” he said. “Have you ever dived? You could go with me.”

“I don’t know how,” she said.

“I could teach you. The lens can’t be that deep.”

She hesitated. “I think I’d panic, but thanks for the offer.” They turned the corner to walk past the dairy case. “I had a talk with Kenny today,” she said.

He felt a stab of jealousy. “Oh, yeah?”

“He was telling me that you two have a pilot friend who might be able to spot the lens from the air.”

“He probably means Dave Spears.”

“Kenny’s going to ask him if he’d do it and what it would cost.”

Clay turned the cart into the aisle containing rice and pasta and beans. If he talked to Dave himself, the pilot would probably do it for free.

“He might not be able to see anything, you know,” he cautioned her. “It depends on how—”

“On the weather and the clarity of the water, and how big the pieces are, et cetera, et cetera,” she said, reaching for a bag of rice. The store had basmati rice after all. “But one thing is certain.”

“What’s that?” he asked.

“He won’t see it if he doesn’t look for it.”

“And if he finds it, then what?” Clay asked her.

“Then, at least we’ll—”

“Gina?” It was a woman’s voice, coming from behind them, and he and Gina turned around.

The young woman was very tall, with strawberry-blond hair in a bun on the top of her head and a nasty-looking sunburn on her face. She pushed a loaded shopping cart, a toddler in the seat.

“It is you,” the woman said. “I thought, God, that woman looks like Gina, but I figured you couldn’t possibly be in North Carolina.”

He felt Gina stiffen at his side, but she smiled. “Hi, Emily,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

“A friend of my cousin’s has a house in Ocean Sands,” she said. “We decided to come out here for a couple of weeks and visit the relatives. And how about you? What are you doing on this side of the country?” She shifted her gaze from Gina to Clay. “And who’s this?” she added.

“This is a friend of mine, Clay O’Neill,” Gina said. “Clay, this is Emily Parks. She and I teach at the same school.”

“Ah,” Clay said. “Nice to meet you. Small world, huh?”

“Merissa’s getting huge.” Gina ran her hand over the child’s blond curls. “Hi, sweetie,” she cooed in a voice that he had certainly never heard her use before. “Do you remember me, honey?” The little girl sucked her fingers, staring wordlessly at Gina.

“How’s the adoption going?” Emily said, and for a moment Clay thought he must have misunderstood her.

Gina smiled, but there was ice there, the smile little more than a frozen, upturned line on her face. “Moving along,” she said, then looked at her watch. “And speaking of moving along, I’m the cook tonight, so Clay and I had better get going.”

“I guess I won’t see you in the fall, then,” Emily said, “since you’ll be—”

“I don’t know yet,” Gina interrupted her quickly, almost rudely. “Just taking things one day at a time.” She waved at her friend. “Have a great vacation, Emily,” she called over her shoulder as she stepped in front of Clay to grab the cart.

She started pushing the cart away from Emily Parks at a brisk pace and he followed, perplexed.

“Where’s the chicken?” Gina peered down the aisle toward the deli case. Her hands were shaking on the bar of the cart.

“Adoption?” he asked.

She didn’t even look at him. “I’m sorry, Clay. I don’t mean to be rude, but I just don’t want to talk about it.” There were tears welling up in her dark eyes. He reached toward her to touch her arm again, but this time he felt her muscles stiffen beneath his fingers.

“Would you mind getting the chicken?” she asked. “A whole one, cut up. I’ll get in line at the checkout.”

Dinner that night was both exotic and delicious, and afterward, he and Lacey and Henry were able to persuade Gina to play a little gin rummy with them, but he could tell she was anxious to get to the office and her e-mail. She had been very quiet in the car on the way home from the grocery store, and he hadn’t known what questions to ask or what to say to draw her out. He wished again that he possessed those skills. He studied her face while they played cards at the kitchen table, wondering, what adoption? Why was she so damn secretive? If she was not hiding in her room by the time he returned from taking Henry home, he was going to do his best to find out.