It was the most she had said all day. Her voice was clear and light and assured, a very fine and precise line of sound. There was the hint of an accent, maybe French.

“It must be pretty good,” Effie said. “You’ve had your head buried in it all night.”

“I guess I go in for the pulp shit too.”

“Let me see it,” Max said, and he took it from Clara. He flipped a few pages and, in a baritone and English-accented voice, read: “‘I know not why my dreams were so wild that night, but ere the waning and fantastically gibbous moon…’”

Alma rolled slowly onto her knees and with a show of effort got to her feet. “All right,” she said. “I’m going for a walk.”

“A walk?” Max said, closing the book. “What are you talking about? What time is it?”

“It’s not late,” Alma said. She stepped into her deck shoes, which she’d left by the fireplace, and lifted each foot in turn to pull the heels on.

“It’s dark out,” Max said.

“So? There’s nobody here—like you said. I’m just going down to the beach.”

“Alma,” Max said. “You’re not going to the beach.”

“But I am.” She was walking toward the foyer now, smiling at Max in what seemed to be a loving way. “See? I already am.”

When the front door closed behind her, Henry was sad to see her go. She’d pointedly ignored them all day, but her rudeness had a magnetism to it. Probably she knew this. All night, barely conscious of it, he’d been unable to keep himself from glancing at her legs, her bare feet bobbing rhythmically while she read, the lovely curve of her behind.

“Is she all right?” Effie asked.

Max shook his head. “She’s fine.”

They left soon after. A quiet had fallen over Clara, and when Henry saw Max running the backs of his fingers up and down the side of her armchair, he told Effie they’d better go. She agreed. They stood up before Max or Clara could protest.

“Come back in the morning,” Clara said. “Ten o’clock? We’ll make mimosas. It’ll take the edge off.”

The night was not as cold as they’d expected it to be. An almost full moon stood high in the sky, and all the houses of the street were clearly visible. Back at Clara’s, the lights had gone out already. The thought that she and Max were at that moment rushing to bed together gave him a pang—of excitement, or jealousy, he wasn’t sure.

“Those two are having an affair,” Effie said, and the coolness of her tone surprised him.

“Do you think so?” he said, playing dumb.

“Oh, please.” She stumbled over a rut in the road and clung to him. “Now I see how her marriage works. Clara, Clara…”

It was only a little past ten. Despite all the drinks, Henry felt wide-awake, and he wanted to go where Alma presumably was right then: down on the beach, watching the silvery waves crash. He asked Effie if she felt like going.