But now she would have to deal with it.

This wasn’t what petrified Claire, however. What petrified Claire was the notion that Lock had not come on official gala fix-the-catering nonsense but had come, finally, to whisk Claire away. The Jaguar was the white horse. Lock had been watching for her so eagerly, and stood so suddenly when she emerged from the car, that Claire thought, Oh, God, he’s going to do it—ask me to run away with him. He wanted her to climb into the Jag and drive off with a wave, leaving J.D. baffled on the porch.

Claire opened the back of the Pilot, pulled out the sandy towels, and took her time shaking them. She slid out the boogie boards, handed them to J.D., and said, “Would you rinse these, please, sweetheart?”

J.D. was looking at Lock; Lock was looking at Claire.

J.D. took the boogie boards to the hose on the side of the house. Claire trudged up the porch stairs in her dime-store flip-flops. He would never ask her to go with him, she realized. And suddenly that was all she wanted. For him to ask, for him to beg.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” he said.

She wondered about her other children and Pan. They weren’t home yet; the inside of the house was too quiet. Claire busied herself with folding the damp towels.

“You’ve taken me by surprise,” she said, moving to the mudroom door.

“I was on my way home from work,” Lock said. He smiled tightly. “I’ve been trying to reach you all day. We have to talk.”

She turned to him. She couldn’t breathe. Really, if he asked her, if he meant it, if he promised her all the right things, if he’d thought it through very carefully and still made it romantic and spontaneous, the chance of a lifetime, the chance for happiness with a man who understood her better, differently, would she go with him? No, never. But she might.

“About the catering,” he said.

As they entered the house, Claire wondered: Was it a mess? In her mind the house was always a mess, with the flotsam of their lives littering every surface—bills, mail, magazines, the girls’ ponytail holders, Zack’s pacifiers and bottles with half an inch of sour milk left, sunglasses, keys, the nails and screws and spare change that Jason emptied from his pockets each evening. Yes, it was all there, the family’s life exposed: someone’s used Band-Aid was on the counter, and Claire swept it into the trash. Claire had never been to Lock’s house, but she gathered it was one of those homes where everything was tucked away so that the place was left with as much personality as a hotel room.

Claire’s answering machine was blinking. Eight messages.

Claire opened the fridge. “Would you like some cold grapes?”

“You don’t have to entertain me,” Lock said.

Claire pulled out the colander of grapes anyway and set it on the bar. “How about a beer?”

Lock shrugged. “After the day I had? Sure.”

Okay, so he was going to talk about his day, one hell of a day he had, while Claire was at the beach, boogie-boarding and drinking sparkling Italian lemonade. J.D. marched in, and Claire said, “Outdoor shower, please.”

“I’m going.”

Lock offered his hand. “Hey, you must be J.D. I’m Lock Dixon.”

J.D. shook his hand, looked him in the eye, smiled. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Dixon.”

“I’m a friend of your mother’s.”

“We work together,” Claire said. “We’re working on the gala together. Mr. Dixon runs Nantucket’s Children.”

“Okay,” J.D. said. He disappeared out the back door.

“He has nice manners,” Lock said.

Claire pulled one of Jason’s beers out of the fridge and flipped off the top. “Glass?”

“No thanks.”

He was here in the house, he had met and approved of the oldest child, he was drinking Jason’s beer, and Claire was supremely uncomfortable with all of it.

“Give me the lowdown,” she said.

He removed his jacket and hung it on the back of the barstool. He rolled up the sleeves of his seersucker shirt neatly. Here was Lock Dixon relaxing with a beer after work. Claire watched him. He was her lover, but he was a complete stranger.

Claire heard stampeding feet in the mudroom. The rest of the gang traipsed in, Zack crying, Pan looking beat up and weary. The girls, like J.D., stopped what they were doing (bickering), dropped their sodden towels on the floor, and stared at Lock.

“Who’s that?” Shea demanded.

“This is Mr. Dixon,” Claire said. “Mommy’s helper on the gala.”

Lock waved at Pan. “Nice to see you again.”

Pan smiled and handed Zack off to Claire. He was hot and unhappy and his diaper was leaking and full of sand.

Claire wasn’t sure what to do. This wasn’t exactly how she wanted Lock to see her life.

“Is that your car?” Ottilie asked.

“It is,” Lock said.

“I like it!” she said.

“I have to talk to your mom right now,” Lock said. “But next time I come, I’ll give you a ride.”

“Can I ride, too?” Shea asked.

There was a knock at the door. The front door, which meant UPS or a neighbor’s child selling raffle tickets.

“Okay,” Claire said to the kids. “To the shower, please.” She was using her Julie Andrews voice. They’re only young once! Must enjoy them! She wanted Lock to see that she was a good mother, the best mother, despite her obvious shortcoming. “Excuse me one second,” she said, and she went to the door.