1

      ELEVEN IN THE MORNING. THE BACKYARDS OF HOUSES RUMBLE by. Here and there an aboveground pool, discarded patio furniture, rusting bicycles. Barking dogs tied with ropes. Dry lawns. The sky is a pale blue, the heat of early summer just beginning to unfurl itself. Every fifteen minutes or so the train stops. More people get on than off.

      Day-trippers look for empty seats on the crowded, noisy, brightly lit train. They carry bags filled with sunblock, bottles of water, sandwiches, and magazines. The women wear bathing suits under their clothes, bursts of neon color knotted around their necks. The men, young, tattooed, muscular, the buds of iPods wired to their ears, wear backward baseball caps, shorts, and flip-flops, towels draped around their necks, ready for a Saturday at the beach.

      Claire is joining them. But she is not with them. I am not there either. We haven’t met yet, but I can imagine her. If I close my eyes I can still remember the sound of her voice, the way she walks. She is young, alluring, hurtling to a destination that will change her life, and mine, forever.

      She huddles against the window, trying to concentrate on her book, but puts it down every few moments to look out at the passing landscape. The jolting of the train makes her sleepy. The trip feels like it is taking longer than it is, and she wishes she were there already. Silently, she urges the train to go faster. Her backpack, the one she carried around Europe, is on the seat beside her, and she hopes no one asks her to move it. She knows it is too big, and it looks as though she is coming to stay for a week or a month and not just a night. Her roommate had taken the other bag, the one on wheels which they shared, on a business trip. She opens her book and tries again to focus on the words, but it’s no use. It’s not that it’s a bad book. She has been meaning to read it since it first came out. The author is one of her favorites. Maybe she will read it on the beach later if there is time.

      The conductor collects the ticket stubs. He has a thick, reddish mustache and is wearing a worn, light blue short-sleeved shirt and a round, dark blue cap. He has done this trip hundreds of times. “Speonk,” he intones nasally, drawing out the last syllable. “Next station Spe-onnnk.”

      She consults the schedule in her hand. Only a few stations to go.

      At Westhampton, the day-trippers begin to get off the train in small groups. Some are meeting friends with cars. High fives and laughter. Others stand around and gather their bearings in the sunlit parking lot, clutching their cell phones to their ears. Their adventures are already beginning. She returns the schedule to her pocket. She has to wait another thirty-eight minutes before she reaches her destination.

      At the station Clive is waiting. Go left when you come out, he had told her. I’ll be there.

      He is tall, blond, English. The tails of his expensive shirt untucked. She has never seen him in shorts before. He is very tan. It has only been a week since she last saw him, but he looks as though he has lived here his whole life. That the handmade suits he normally wears seem to belong to some other man.

      He leans over to kiss her on the cheek and picks up her bag. “How long are you planning on staying exactly?” he asks with a smile.

      “I knew you were going to say that,” she says, wrinkling her nose at him. “No need to panic. Dana took the good bag.”

      He laughs easily and starts to walk, saying, “I’m just parked over here. Thought I’d run you back to the house, and then we could all grab a spot of lunch.”

      She hears the mention of others and is surprised but tries not to show it. “Come out for the weekend,” he had said, nuzzling her shoulder. “I want you to. It will be very quiet. Just us. You’ll love it.”

      He opens the door of his two-seater and throws her bag behind them. She doesn’t know anything about cars, but she can tell it is a nice one. The top is down and the rich-smelling leather is pleasantly hot against the bare backs of her legs.

      Although he is older than she, he has the youthfulness that comes to men who have never married. Even if they travel with a woman, there is something unencumbered about them, never having been weighted down by anything more than their own desires.

      When she met him, at the party in a loft in Tribeca, then afterward at the restaurant and then bed, he had reminded her of a boy home from school for Christmas trying to squeeze in as much pleasure as possible before it is all over.

      “So who else do you have out?” She doesn’t mean to make it sound like an accusation.

      “Oh, just the rest of my harem,” he says with a wink. Reaching out, he puts his hand on her thigh. “Don’t worry. Clients. They invited themselves at the last minute, and I couldn’t really say no. Bad form.”

      They drive past high green hedgerows, behind which there are occasional glimpses of large houses. Workmen, Mexican or Guatemalan maybe, dart in and out, pushing lawn mowers, clipping branches, cleaning pools, raking gravel, their battered pickup trucks parked inoffensively on the side of the road. Other people are on the roads too. Men and women jogging, some on bikes, one or two nannies pushing strollers. Sunlight twinkles between the leaves. The whole world seems manicured, verdant, private.

      They turn down a gravel drive lined with newly planted saplings.

      “Can’t tell you how long it’s taken to get this bloody place ready,” says Clive. “Nearly strangled my contractor when he told me it