“We’re going to Tortola a week from Friday,” Daphne said.

“Tortola?”

“It’s one of the British Virgin Islands.”

“Oh, right,” Claire said. “I know what it is. I just didn’t realize . . .” She couldn’t continue.

“We’re going for a week.”

“With Heather?” Claire said. What must her face look like? She was, as far as she could tell, still upright, though her legs were threatening to buckle. The wine was dangling from her hand like a club. “Is it her . . . spring break?”

“We’re going alone,” Daphne said. “Just the two of us. It’s time. We need it. We’ll go see Heather first, for the weekend. Then we’ll fly out of Logan to the Caribbean. We’re staying at this ultrachic new place called—”

“It sounds fabulous,” Claire said, then realized Daphne wasn’t finished. But no matter—Claire was finished. Finished! When she got into her car, she would decide if she should cry or vomit, but she couldn’t do either right now.

“I’m surprised Lock didn’t mention it to you,” Daphne said. “He is so anxious to get away, the vacation is all he talks about.”

“Well, with this weather,” Claire said, “who can blame him?”

“Exactly,” Daphne said. “And what about you?” Her nose wrinkled, and Claire wondered if she was about to make another nasty comment about Claire and the shower. Well, if she did, Claire would smack the nose right off her face. Okay, this was bad, a bad thought, a bad series of thoughts, a bad, bad situation—facing her lover’s wife in the liquor store, both of them buying the same bottle of wine, Lock’s favorite fucking wine, and then the news of the vacation. Unspeakably bad.

“What about me?” Claire asked.

“Are you going away?” Daphne asked. She took a stab. “Disney?”

“No,” Claire said. “Not this year.”

“That’s too bad,” Daphne said. “I suppose it’s hard, with the kids.”

“Hard,” Claire agreed. She widened her eyes, as if remembering something. “I have to get Jason some beer,” she said. “That’s what I came for!”

“Oh,” Daphne said. She seemed disappointed at Claire’s retreat. “Okay. Well, enjoy the viognier!”

“Thanks,” Claire said, backing away. “Enjoy Tortola!”

Claire’s emotions were so complicated, she didn’t even know where to start. Lock was going to Tortola with Daphne, alone, for a week. It’s time. We need it. And he hadn’t even bothered to tell her himself. She had to hear it from Daphne. This was awful. This was the low point. Every minute of every hour since Claire had returned home from the liquor store, she had chastised herself. One of the rules of having an affair was that you weren’t allowed to feel this kind of jealousy. Claire could not be jealous of Daphne. Daphne was Lock’s wife. She had legal ownership, the history, the name, the home, the child. Of course he would go on vacation with Daphne. How could Claire protest? She could not. Agreeing to an affair meant agreeing to a relationship without claims; she had no rights to him. That she should feel utterly betrayed was backward. It was Daphne who should feel betrayed, but Daphne would spend a week with Lock alone, at some ultrachic new resort. They would be making love on a wide, soft bed, not on top of a conference table. It was horrible to contemplate—Lock and Daphne together romantically, sexually. But what a hypocrite she was! She slept every night next to Jason, she made love to him, she even had orgasms—but it was not attended with the same heartbreaking desire that she felt for Lock. What she experienced with Jason was exercise, it was fondly going through the motions, it was empty. She and Lock had talked about this carefully. They had agreed: they would both be happier together, sharing the paper, eating Big Macs, fishing in Ibiza. The happiness brought about simply by talking about these things was impossible to conjure now. Tortola. Just the two of us. We need it.

Claire’s phone rang on Monday morning at eight fifteen. She was in the car, on her way home from dropping the kids off at school. She checked the display. Lock. She threw the phone as hard as she could at the passenger door. The phone broke into its component parts. Zack started to cry.

Finished!

In the driveway, Claire put her phone back together with trembling hands. It rang again. Lock. Again, she ignored it. She handed Zack off to Pan and went about the tasks of her day.

Finished!

The calls came every hour. Claire lasted until four o’clock. Pan watched the kids; Claire took her phone out to the hot shop. She didn’t bother with “hello.”

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“I was afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“That you’d be angry.”

“Any idea how grossly humiliating it was to hear it from Daphne?”

“I was horrified. I would have called you Saturday if I could have.”

“You should have told me yourself. Back whenever it was that you made the plans. A month ago? Two months?”

“I am so sorry, Claire. I am prostrate at your feet.”

“Are you?”

“Yes! God, yes. I love you.”

“You didn’t tell me, why? Because you didn’t think I could handle it?”

“No. I knew you could handle it. But I didn’t think you’d like it.”