“Don’t let their judgment bother you,” he’d assured her. “You know that what we have is real.”

“I know,” she’d said, and he had heard relief and gratitude in her voice. “I don’t care what anyone thinks. I know how I feel. I know how you feel.”

“I’ll try to come back Sunday morning if I can.”

“It’s okay,” Natalie had said. “Soon Violet will be off to college or on her trip, and we can be together every weekend.”

“Right,” he’d replied weakly. “I’ll see you in a couple of days.”

It was Saturday afternoon, and he’d been trapped at the Sagaponack house until now. Celeste’s parents had been visiting from Montreal, were just now heading home. They’d been there all week while Gabe had been in the city; he’d left work early Friday afternoon to have dinner with them. He’d been relieved it was just one dinner. Gilbert and Sylvie were fine but, even though they spoke perfect English, they insisted on speaking French, which drove him nuts. He had no idea what they were saying and often assumed they were mocking or disparaging him without his knowledge. Violet was fluent, but she always responded in English. He doubted it was for his benefit, but he appreciated it nonetheless.

He was in the massive kitchen, making himself a sandwich with the leftover pork loin Celeste had made last night. As he spread Dijon mustard on his multigrain bread, his mind returned to Natalie’s words on the phone.

Soon Violet will be on her trip, and we can be together every weekend.

His daughter’s graduation was a ticking clock on his affair. Once Violet was at college or in fucking Honduras, he would have two options: end it with Natalie or end his marriage. There was a third option—tell Natalie he’d been married all along, that he’d like to keep her on as his mistress. But the girl was in love with him. She’d feel betrayed. She might freak out, contact Celeste. He could lose them both.

He had to make a choice.

A car pulled into the drive then. It would be Celeste returning home from chauffeuring her parents to LaGuardia. He’d suggested a car service, had offered to drive them himself, but his wife had insisted. She knew the way, was comfortable on the freeway. Gabe could stay home and catch up on work. He’d been grateful—three hours in a car filled with Quebecois banter was not his idea of a good time. But it would have been nice to be needed.

Waiting for his wife to enter the house, he chewed his sandwich, thinking about Natalie. She needed him, unlike his wife and daughter, who were both so capable, so independent and strong-willed that he’d become extraneous. Other than the paycheck he brought home, Celeste and Violet were largely ambivalent to his existence. Natalie relied on him financially, too, but also emotionally, physically. His was the first number she called when she was afraid; he was the person she turned to when she was upset, or in trouble. It was his comfort she sought, above all others.