“Okay,” she said.

They pulled into her driveway. The house was large and lovely, lit from within. He had pictured Claire in just such a house, happy and bright. She deserved it.

“Here already?” he said. He should have asked her to drive around some, show him the island, even though it was nearly dark. He didn’t want to go inside and face the husband and the kids. He wanted Claire to himself.

“Here already,” she said.

Max West was a rock star, but since Bess and the dogs had left, he had gotten used to being alone. Claire lived in a house full of people: her husband, a slew of kids. So many people!

“Matthew, this is Jason,” Claire said. “You remember my husband, Jason Crispin?”

Matthew did not remember Jason. He could not have picked Jason out of a crowd of two—they had met so long ago, and Max had been wasted, and nothing about Jason was remarkable. He was a big guy—well, bigger than Matthew—and rock solid with muscles, he was tan, he had blond hair, and there was a day’s growth on his face. He was a handsome enough guy, Matthew supposed, but was he special enough for Claire? Max didn’t think so. Could Max take him in a fight? That remained to be seen.

“Hey, man, how’re you doing?” Jason said. He had an aggressive handshake and that eager glint in his eye that everyone got when they met Max West. “Good to see you again. I am a huge fan!”

Matthew smiled. So underwhelming. Not special enough for Claire, not even close. The most interesting thing about Jason was that he was drinking something from a blue plastic stadium cup. Was it beer? And if it was, would Underwhelming Jason offer Matthew one? Because being in Claire’s actual house and meeting her actual family was making him anxious, and when he got anxious, he got thirsty. He needed a drink.

Underwhelming Jason noticed Matthew’s gaze. He tipped his cup and said, “Iced tea. Can I get you one?”

Iced tea? Matthew nearly groaned. Bruce had called.

“No, thanks, man,” Matthew said. “I’m all set.”

Meanwhile, Claire had the children lined up like Russian dolls, ready to meet him, and she was running through the names. Jaden, Odyssey . . . or did she say Honesty? He missed the third one’s name completely but caught that the baby’s name was Zack. The kids were beautiful, gorgeous, with their golden red hair, their summer tans, their gap-toothed smiles. These were his kids.

“It’s nice to meet you!” Matthew said to his kids. “I brought presents!” He unzipped his duffel and pulled out the black Louis Vuitton shopping bag that his assistant, Ashland, had handed him on the tarmac at LAX. He’d sent her, at the last minute, to Rodeo Drive to get the kids gifts. They’re little kids, he’d said. Or maybe some of them are grown. Two boys, two girls. Get a range.

The kids ravaged the packages as if it was Christmas morning. He, Matthew, was Santa Claus. Claire and Jason looked on politely. Claire said, “You didn’t have to bring them anything, Matthew. They have everything under the sun.”

“But we don’t have one of these!” the oldest boy—what was his name?—shouted. He held up a silver Colibri lighter.

“What is that?” Claire said. “Let me look at it.” She flipped it open. Flame. “It’s a lighter.”

Matthew filled with dread. There was a typical rock-star move: buy a ten-year-old boy a hundred-dollar Italian lighter so he can take up smoking weed in the basement with style.

“Mom, give it back!” the kid said. “I want it!”

“You’re going to burn the house down,” Claire said. She was laughing, sort of. It was strained. Matthew could not look at Jason. The worst thing was that now Matthew would have to fire Ashland. A lighter? What had she been thinking?

“What else is there?” Matthew asked nervously. A bong? A handgun?

There were two Louis Vuitton silk scarves for the girls, as well as some Chanel eye shadow in the blue palette. Claire looked like she was going to pop a vein. She would never run off with him now. In the box for the baby, Zack, was a remote control Ferrari Testarossa. That was a hit with everyone except the baby. Jason, especially, seemed enthralled. Max exhaled, relaxed a little bit. Okay, Ashland could keep her job.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Claire said. “We have iced tea, water, milk, chocolate milk, juice—OJ, pomegranate, and apple-cranberry—or I could make coffee. Espresso, cappuccino, regular, decaf . . . ?”

Matthew was dying to ask for a beer. Just one cold beer—the situation was unusually stressful, so he deserved one beer. He wouldn’t get drunk. He was a gin man; beer, for him, was like juice. But he couldn’t bring himself to ask; Claire would be disappointed in him, and she would know how weak he really was, unable to last ten minutes without a drink. He opted for coffee, and Claire made a pot.

The evening wore on. Matthew wanted to be with Claire, and Claire alone—it was Claire, after all, that he’d come to see—but Claire’s house was a circus, it was the boardwalk on an August night, it was an obstacle course. Matthew was introduced to the nanny, a Thai girl named Pan, who had the chicken pox. She stood across the room bowing to him, and he thought of Ace in Bangkok. (In the end, he had given her five thousand dollars to help her pay for college.)

“Sawadee krup!” Matthew said. He could say hello in forty languages. Did Claire know this? Pan giggled and ducked back into her room. Matthew would much rather have talked to Pan, but Underwhelming Jason was right there at his side, dogging him.