They let themselves in at Clara’s and dropped their suitcases in the foyer. No one was in the den, but all the windows and doors were open, drafts played through the house, and here too classical music was coming from the record player. “We’re here,” Effie called, and from above Clara cried, “My loves!” and then Henry saw her—Alma—out by the pool, lying in a deck chair in her white bathing suit and sunglasses, reading a magazine. When he came to the patio door she glanced at him, drew her lips taut—the faintest trace of a smile—and returned to her reading.

Ten

Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday: the days passed in a haze. The hours were strange. Henry only slept in short, deep bursts, when he laid his head back, wherever he was, and closed his eyes, and time jumped and someone, usually Effie, shook him awake, laughing at him, and he leapt up to follow whatever they were doing—another excursion into town or out on the boat, another drink, another meal, another game. If he was acting strange, no one seemed to notice. They’d all given themselves over to some kind of enchantment. They drank all day. In the morning Max and Clara worked, and these were the quiet hours. Effie lay out by the pool. Alma slept upstairs. Henry napped fitfully in the shade. In the afternoon they took the boat out. At night they danced in the den. They played hide-and-seek in the house and out in the yard. They sat around the fire and played games. In the first couple of days Effie never made it to midnight: she would fall asleep on the sofa, and Henry would wake her and take her up to their room, where he’d lie beside her for a while, listening to her steady breathing, waiting for the house to still, until he could get up and slip away, downstairs and outside, a shadow in the night, down the street to the Bishops’ house, where Alma would be waiting for him.

At every moment his intention was fixed on that one object: to be alone with Alma. Sometimes she seemed so much herself, so natural and indifferent to him, that he was sure something had changed, that she was no longer accessible to him, and he’d feel panicked, he’d try to meet her eyes, he’d want to clutch her and beg her, out loud, for a sign, and then he’d feel rotten and ashamed of himself. But then she’d do some little thing—a passing touch, a smile, the way she said hi to him—that would carry him for hours, and the secret was almost as sweet as the thing itself. He loved to see her around the others, ignoring him. He loved to see her in her clothes and know that, in a few hours, he would take them off.