They had talked recently and Max thought he’d heard a crack in her voice, a place where he might climb back into her life. Was he deranged? He didn’t know. He hadn’t seen Claire in years and years; she would be a different person now, the mother of four little kids. It was silly, but he thought of her kids as his kids, even though he had never set eyes on them. He was drunk, delusional, but what he was realizing was that Claire Danner lived in his heart and always had; she was a part of him. They were connected by their shared history, by having grown up together and given each other their first attempt at love. He wasn’t New Agey like Bess, and he didn’t even really believe in God, much to his mother’s dismay, but he did believe in connections between people. He had written all those early songs for Claire. She was all he knew; she had been there at the beginning. His subsequent relationships had all failed. He let women down—his first wife, Stacey, his second wife, Bess, and Savannah in between.

Could he go back to Claire? Would she have him? Would there be anything left?

He strummed the Peal. The Peal, like Claire, was his true instrument, the original. He felt a song brewing inside him, gathering like a storm. An old song, a new song.

If her mother had said it once, she’d said it fifty thousand times: Be careful what you wish for.

As a child, Siobhan had wanted a horse. They did, after all, live on a farm, which her father had inherited, but it was a mediocre piece of land that could only sustain turnips and mean chickens. When Siobhan begged for a horse, her mother said, Be careful what you wish for. If we get you a horse, you’ll never have a moment’s rest. You’ll have to carry out feed and water, you’ll have to groom the horse and deal with its droppings, you’ll have to give it exercise, which means riding the horse, Siobhan. It will make you sore like you’ve never been in your young life. A horse will run your father and me to the poorhouse faster than we’re going already, and your brothers and sisters will hate you from envy. Wish for a horse all you want, Siobhan, but the worst thing that could happen is for that wish to come true.

Another gem from her dismal Irish upbringing! And yet here were her mother’s words ringing true again. Siobhan had wanted to know what was going on between Claire and Lock Dixon—she had meant to find out! She had threatened and accused and withheld the sound of her voice from Claire’s ear for two full weeks.

Now they were sitting on the cold sand of the south shore, two uneaten sandwiches between them. It was chilly on the beach, but Claire had been adamant about the place. The two of them alone, outside, surrounded by landscape that was bigger than they were.

There’s something I have to tell you, Claire said.

And Siobhan thought, Yes! Out with it!

I’m having an affair with Lock Dixon. I’m in love with him.

The horse, her mother, the turnips and chickens, the envy of her brothers and sisters. Be careful what you wish for. Siobhan heard Claire’s words and saw the expression on her face—one of naked pain, as though Siobhan were twisting her arm behind her back. Siobhan filled immediately with regret. And shock and horror. It was true, the unthinkable was true. The betrayal was real and complete. A commandment had been broken, and it lay shattered at their feet. It had been broken by the only person whose goodness Siobhan had wholly believed in. Siobhan didn’t know if she was more disappointed in Claire for the transgression, or in herself for making Claire admit to it.

I’m having an affair with Lock Dixon. I’m in love with him.

In love with him?

Siobhan felt revulsion at the back of her throat, a gag reflex. She was going to be sick. This had been her hair-trigger reaction to every piece of bad news her whole life: vomiting. Gross and mortifying, but true. She had vomited outside the church at her mother’s funeral, even though her mother had been dying for months; she had vomited in her apartment for two hours after she had broken her engagement to Edward Melior. Claire was in love with Lock Dixon, and Siobhan was going to vomit right there onto the cold sand. It was the body’s most basic rejection. Her spirit screaming, No!

She coughed into her hand. Okay.

This was not a film with actors, it was not one of the afternoon soap operas—her sleeping with him sleeping with her. These were real people in real life; people hurting other people. Claire hurting, for starters, Jason. Poor Jason! Siobhan honestly would have bet her life savings that she would never have uttered those words in her mind, because Jason was not “poor Jason.” He was too much of a callous son of a bitch, absolutely impossible, as macho and Marlboro as the male species came, Jason was. He had let his guard down a little bit when the baby was born. Siobhan had seen him weepy and quivery-lipped, but what had he turned around and done then? He had blamed the whole thing on Claire. She shouldn’t have been in the hot shop. She knew better. Jason was a Neanderthal. Carter was the refined brother; he did things like mince, julienne, and sauté; he had an artist’s eye, a delicate touch. Jason had tormented Carter about the cooking for most of their adult lives—Carter was gay, cooking was for pussies. Real men did . . . what? Pounded nails into wood. Yes, Siobhan had had her trouble with Jason, they had exchanged words, and he did not appear anywhere on her list of favorite people. But he was family, and as with her brothers and sisters—some of whom she truly detested—she would take his side against someone who was not blood any day of the week.

Poor Jason.

Siobhan coughed again. The back of her throat tickled relentlessly; her stomach roiled. There would be no hope for the sandwich. Siobhan shivered and collected her jacket around her. The sky was leaden and very low. It was hard to believe it was almost summer.