The man was affable enough, Lock thought. He had a toughness, a masculinity, that Lock lacked, but part and parcel with those traits was what Lock could only think of as ignorance. Lock wasn’t saying that Jason was stupid, but he wasn’t polished or worldly, and there were things he didn’t know or understand about Claire.

Once, after a few glasses of viognier at the office, Claire said, in regard to Jason, “Half the time, I’m his mother, and the other half I’m his sex slave.”

Lock said, sweeping her hair aside so he could kiss the back of her neck, “You deserve better, you know.” It was Lock’s opinion that Jason treated Claire like a feudal servant, and while he was angered by this, he was also grateful for it. The holes that Jason left were ones that Lock could fill. He could tell Claire she was beautiful, he could talk to her about her work, he could appreciate her, treat her gently, tenderly. He could clip poems out of the New Yorker or copy passages out of novels and know that the words and the sentiments were fresh. Claire kept the clippings in an unmarked folder.

“I love Jason,” she said. “But he’s not you.”

What did that mean? Lock took it to mean that he was giving Claire something she lacked, something she needed.

Claire had sex with her husband often. She used this word “often,” though she didn’t qualify it. For Lock and Daphne, once a month would have been often; before the accident, they had had sex once or twice a week. Lock feared that “often” for Claire meant even more frequently than that, but he couldn’t bear to dwell on it. When he and Claire were together, he couldn’t allow himself to become distracted by whether Claire had been employed as Jason’s sex slave the day before or even that very day. She never said a word. Her passion for Lock was pulsing and vocal every single time, and he was happy with that.

Well, he had no choice. Jason was the husband, the father of her children.

Lock went to Claire’s house after a lunch with the head of Marine Home Center to discuss a yearly giving plan. On his way back to the office, he decided he would drop off those underwriting letters, which did indeed have to go out. They were behind the eight ball as it was.

Lock knew Claire’s neighborhood, though he wasn’t exactly sure which house was hers. (Odd, he thought, that he didn’t even know which house his lover lived in.) Daphne had been to Claire’s house once for a women’s cocktail party or a baby shower and Lock had dropped her off, but that was ages ago, back in another lifetime. He turned onto Claire’s road—Featherbed Lane, an unfortunate name—his heart skipping, his lunch trying to find a way to comfortably settle. He was crossing a threshold, stepping over the line, into Claire’s actual life. Her house, on cozy, comfy Featherbed Lane. It was different from Claire’s stopping by the office; the office was public space and she belonged there now as much as he did. She would never dream of going to Lock’s house, that cold white palace on the edge of the water. She wouldn’t want to see Daphne, and Lock didn’t blame her.

He identified the house right away. There was something distinctive about it, which he had forgotten: an alcove around the front door. When Lock had dropped Daphne off long ago, it had been summer, the roof of the alcove had dripped with ivy and clematis (though now, in January, they were bare, brown vines), and on the step had sat a wide-bottomed green bottle with the word “Crispin” imprinted on the front. Claire’s car was in the driveway and there were hockey sticks leaning against the garage door, and a basketball trapped in an icy puddle. The day was very bright and cold. Lock squinted despite his sunglasses. He wore earmuffs—this had become something of a joke around town, people pointing out that since he was losing his hair, he really needed a hat—and an overcoat and wing-tip shoes. He felt like a salesman as he approached the door. He felt like a Jehovah’s Witness.

The house was a work of art. It was trimmed with mahogany and copper flashing; the light fixture next to the door was an antique. The front door was salvaged from somewhere—probably a farmhouse in Vermont. Lock knocked. He should have called first, though that belied the principle of “stopping by,” which was what Claire had said she wanted him to do. She wanted him to surprise her. Well, here he was. Surprise!

Lock heard a shuffle, a whispery noise, nearly imperceptible beneath his earmuffs. And then the door opened a crack. Lock saw a sliver of dark hair, one dark eye, a glint of silver. He heard a noise like a tiny bell.

“Yes?”

Now he really felt like a Jehovah’s Witness, a vacuum salesman. “Hi, I’m Lock Dixon. I work with Claire. Is she here?”

The door opened a little wider, revealing a girl, the Thai au pair. The lifesaver. The real reason Lock and Claire were able to conduct an affair. “She out back,” the girl said. “Hot shop.”

“Are you Pan?”

She nodded; the bell around her neck tinkled brightly. The door opened a little wider. “Okay you come in?” she said.

“Okay, I’ll come in,” he said. And then, just like that, he was in Claire’s house. To the left was a bench covered with bright cushions, and a pendant light with a stained-glass shade. A door led to a silvery powder room. The floors were maple, and to Lock’s right was an unusual twisting staircase, with balusters made from what looked like the staves of an oak wine barrel. The house was warm and it smelled like onions and ginger. He loved the house instantly and hated himself for loving it. His eyes darted around, as if he was a robber casing the joint, as he followed Pan into the great room: stone fireplace with a smoldering log, honed limestone countertops, Oriental rugs, a deep, red couch, exposed beams, cherry cabinets, copper pots, dried flowers, a large oval chalkboard that said: Shea, 4 P.M. pickup rink! Milk! Pan stirred something on the stove; it smelled wonderful. Behind the sofa were a few toys: a plush tiger, a plastic phone on a pull cord, some wooden blocks. Lock placed his stack of underwriting letters on the countertop next to a pile of mail. To hear Claire talk, he would have thought the house was a shambles. He expected drawers open, piles of laundry mounded on the club chairs, an inch of dust on the bookshelves, soggy breakfast cereal clogging the drain of the sink. But the house was orderly and clean and comfortable and splendid in every detail. The door to the mudroom was open and Lock could spy parkas and boots, a pair of ballet slippers hanging from pink satin ribbons; he heard the churning of the washing machine. The room smelled like woodsmoke, ginger, laundry detergent. His eyes filled with tears unexpectedly. He had dreamed of saving Claire from this place, but she was already safe. This was a home, and he was the wrecker. What was he doing?