“That’s right, man, you toured in Asia. What was that like, man?”

What was it like? Matthew could talk about this all day. He had played for people with totally different belief systems—Buddhists, Muslims, Hindus—but Underwhelming Jason, like every other American man, wanted to talk about the girls, the perks, the money. Matthew needed a drink. He needed some quiet time, alone, with Claire. He found it hard to believe that mankind had created the iPod, a ten-ounce slab of plastic that could play twenty thousand songs, but had been unable to invent a way to travel back in time twenty years, to the happiest days of your life, and allow you to stay there. Claire!

She fussed over him—put out a bowl of Nilla wafers, his favorite, and brought him a bag of frozen peas for his eye. It grew later, and finally she excused herself to put the kids to bed.

“It’s so good to see you,” she said before she went upstairs. “I’m really glad you’re here.”

“But you’re coming back downstairs, right?” he said. Desire had thickened his voice. He sounded, to his own ears, like he was tipping his hand.

Jason grew silent and looked at Claire.

“Yes,” Claire said. “I’ll be back down to say good night.”

He was nuts, he thought, believing that he might have some time alone with Claire when her husband was in the house. It would be smarter to wait until the morning, when Underwhelming Jason went to work. However, much to Matthew’s delight, Jason retired first (he was an early riser, he said, by way of apologizing, it seemed). Matthew shook Jason’s hand, giddy to see him go. The feeling of being in a time warp intensified. How many late nights had Matthew and Claire sat up watching a movie, waiting for Sweet Jane to go to bed so they could fool around?

Left alone to his own devices, Matthew hunted through the fridge for a beer. Nothing. There was a bar in the living room, a beautiful built-in bar with rows of sparkling glasses, but the cabinets were empty of everything but mixers and garnishes. Claire had done her homework. It was an act of love, he knew, a demonstration that she cared about his well-being, but it was maddening. He wouldn’t survive another minute without a drink, so he sneaked quickly to the fridge in the garage. Empty!

He returned to the living room, defeated, and shaking from too much caffeine. The Thai au pair appeared in her nightgown. He noticed her necklace—a tiny silver bell—and he reached out to touch it. “That’s pretty,” he said.

“Thank you,” she said. She was covered with plump red spots. “I get you anything?”

I need a drink! he thought. He could enlist the au pair to help him! But Claire would know, she would find out, and she would be so disappointed, or maybe, like Bess, she operated on zero tolerance and she would ask him to leave.

“I’m all set,” he said. “Thanks!”

Pan bowed, and Matthew repaired to the back deck. The tender, bruised skin around his eye throbbed with pain. He was a rock star, and the world was his oyster. He could have anything he wanted. But could he have Claire? He was as spoiled as a child—Bess had said this time and again. He was used to instant gratification. The best things in life, she’d said, are the things you have to wait for.

Well, he had waited twenty years for Claire. He could wait ten more minutes, couldn’t he? Was she feeling the same way he was? Would she leave with him? He wanted to know, now!

Tomorrow, he thought, he would have a drink.

He was here, in her house. She still had a hard time believing it. The Second Coming of Matthew.

He was waiting for her on the back deck, his elbows resting behind him on the railing, his legs angled forward. He was in jeans and bare feet, watching for her.

She grinned. He was here! It was him!

“God,” he said. “You are still so beautiful.”

That voice. It had always been his voice more than his looks that had captivated her.

He put an arm around her and she leaned into him. It was friendly and comfortable; they were sliding back into their old identities, their teenage selves.

“It is so great to see you.”

“I know,” she said. “Honestly? It’s like we were never apart.”

He gave her a squeeze. They didn’t say anything else for a while, though there were things she might have asked him, things she wanted to know—about Bess, about his drinking problem, about his famous affair with Savannah Bright—but it was better, somehow, to pretend for a minute that none of that had ever happened. She wanted to forget Lock and Jason and the kids inside and just try to locate her old self. She wanted to be that girl on the boardwalk, in the dunes eating lobster, jumping into the passenger side of the yellow Bug. She wanted to rest in Matthew’s arms and pretend, for five minutes.

He smelled the same. Was that possible? He had, as a teenager, smelled like whatever brand of discount laundry detergent Sweet Jane favored, and secondhand smoke from his older sisters’ cigarettes. And that was how he still smelled. She looked up at his face, a face she had most frequently seen, in the past twelve years, on the screen of VH1. He started humming in her ear, and then the humming turned into singing. He was very softly singing “Stormy Eyes” in her ear. A private concert for Claire. He had written the song for her the week before they parted ways. “Stormy Eyes” became his first hit.

He held her face. She was crying now—of course she was crying. He couldn’t sing that song to her and not expect her to cry. And then he kissed her. He kissed her slowly, carefully, and she thought of Matthew on the dark bus, a sudden, surprise superstar. “Sweet Rosie O’Grady.” Matthew, with his guitar slung across his back; Matthew the night they played strip poker and he got so, so jealous. That girl of mine makes me crazy. Matthew standing beside the examining table: Claire was pregnant, she knew it, Matthew was going to have to sell the Peal, and she was going straight to hell. Anemia! Matthew onstage at the Pony, Claire standing behind him, banging the tambourine against her hip like Tracy Partridge—he was already gone from her, she could see it, even before Bruce introduced himself, before they drove to New York in Bruce’s Pinto and Bruce bought Claire a cheeseburger and Coke at a turnpike rest stop. She could have held on tighter, she knew that, but she let him go, and look what happened. He became a star. And as a star, he’d come back to her. Here he was.