She stands with Clive at the edge of the dance floor, which isn’t an actual dance floor but an area marked off with yellow electrical tape. She smiles warmly at him and he smiles uncomfortably back.

“Do you guys come here a lot?” she asks over the din.

“Quite often, miss.”

“You don’t have to call me ‘miss,’ you know.”

“I’m sorry, m—” He looks down, shakes his head at himself.

“It’s fine. Seriously.”

He looks out at the dance floor, like it is an absorbing show he doesn’t want to tear himself away from. She knows he’s just trying to fill the time until Edwin gets back. He doesn’t know how to talk to her.

“I brought you something special,” Edwin says when he returns. He hands Alison a shot glass filled with something murky—it looks like the water in Claire’s fish tank when she hasn’t cleaned it in too long. “See if you can guess the secret ingredient.”

Alison holds the glass up to the light. “What is it?”

“Do you trust me?”

Does she?

“Yeah,” she says coolly. She snaps her head back and takes the shot in one gulp. “It just tastes like grass.”

He claps his hands. “That’s a fact. Vodka infused with fine Jamaican ganja.”

“It’s not bad,” she says. She laughs. “It’s actually pretty good.”

“You going to drink any fool thing he hand you?”

She turns. A woman is standing a few inches away from her, looking at her critically. She wonders if the women here all watched her gulping down the mystery drink and thought, Dumb, dumb, dumb.

The woman breaks into a laugh. “I’m just playing,” she says. “He’s all right. He’s real sweet.”

“This is Paulette she self,” Edwin says.

“Nice to meet you,” Alison says reflexively.

Paulette smirks at her, amused. God, she feels clueless.

“She’s bent all the time to messing up my game,” Edwin says.

“Is this your game?” Alison says, eyebrows raised.

Paulette laughs. “She’s a live one.”

She is doing it. She is really doing it. A live one.

“Do you want to dance?” Edwin asks.

“With you?”

“Sassy.”

She takes his hand and pulls him onto the dance floor.

I SEARCHED for Paulette’s Place online but found no trace of it. It must have closed sometime in the intervening years. I do not know what the bar where Alison was seen with Edwin and Clive really looked like. I know only that it was in the Basin and that according to several witnesses, Alison was there four nights in a row, including on the last night of her life. But I have a mental picture of the place to which, in this version of things, Alison reacts. When she sees my Paulette’s, she is pleased by its shabby authenticity, which affirms that she’s found the real fun to be had on the island, something better than the lame hotel bar where empty-nesters stay up past their bedtimes slinging tequila and laughing at their milquetoast naughtiness.

Is the bar I’ve created a terrible cliché? If so, how much does it matter? What happens if you replace the wood floor coated in sawdust with a proper dance floor? What if you nix the mutt and add a cocktail waitress, sub a sound system for the tinny speakers on the bar? Now what does Alison think, say, do? What quantity of truth resides within a story’s details?

ALISON SITS on the putting green at Indigo Bay in her purple bikini and watches Connecticut drive golf balls into the lagoon. They are alone, at the far edge of the property. On the putting green there is a golf bag stuffed with clubs and a tin bucket of balls, special ones that float. At some later time, Alison assumes, a staff member will go out onto the water in a boat to collect them. So much effort so that they may have this moment.

The lagoon is a wide stretch of shallow water separated from the ocean by dunes and a thicket of sea grape. This spot feels private, secret. She understands this is why he has brought her here. She recognizes the strategy of this, but she can still feel the place working on her. It’s quiet. The only sounds are the swoop of the club, the crack as it makes contact with the ball and, after the passage of an impossible number of moments, the distant plunk of the ball slipping into the water.

“You’re good,” she says. She sits with her legs straight out in front of her, leaning back and propped up on her elbows.

“I’m just okay,” he says with a shrug that makes her heart skip.

She feels him taking in the inches of her. It’s so easy it makes her want to wring the sky—his wanting and her not giving and his wanting more.

It begins to rain. The first drops cool her sunburned shoulders.

“Should we go back?” she asks.

“A little rain never killed anyone,” he says. She can tell he likes how it sounds. He swings and sends a ball whooshing out over the water.

When it begins to pour, he slots the club back into the bag and sits down beside her. He tucks a wet strand of hair behind her ear. He leans in to kiss her, and she kisses him back. Then she pulls away.

What’s wrong with her? Why can’t she give this to herself? Ivy boy and Ivy girl, la-di-da, easy peasy, ashes ashes we all fall down. It makes her … what? Embarrassed? Ashamed? She could kiss him, and then they could have sex in a secluded corner of a resort on a tropical island as the rain falls around them. For a moment she wishes with everything she has that she were a different girl, one who would see this possibility as the pinnacle of something.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

“It’s fine,” he says. “Whatever.”

SHE SEEKS out Edwin and Clive more frequently. In the afternoons, she sneaks away to meet Edwin past the black rocks. She wakes at dawn and swims in the ocean while they set up the lounge chairs on the beach for the day. Before they depart in the evening, she finds them in the parking lot and they pass around a joint. She learns that they have a sideline keeping the guests of Indigo Bay supplied with marijuana and, occasionally, harder stuff—cocaine and Ecstasy, mostly.

“Sometimes we forget to pass on a small amount to our customer,” Edwin says one afternoon.

“So technically this joint is the property of a stockbroker from Millburn?” she says.

“Maybe so.”

“So are you, like, stoned all the time at work?”

“Not all the time, miss,” Clive says with a grin—the first time she’s seen him actually smile.

Her whole body feels charged with the delicious secret they’ve divulged. She has been chosen, brought to the other side of the wall that separates tourist from local. They tell her about the soca band that will be playing at Paulette’s later that week; about the cup of spittle Nestor the bartender keeps under the bar, next to the maraschino cherries. When Clive asks, Alison declares college “pretty boring.” When Edwin prods him, Clive recounts the story of a guest who crashed a Sunfish into a fishing boat in the bay.

“Tourists,” Alison scoffs, then blushes.

Edwin asks her about New York. He tells her he has a cousin there, in Queensbridge.

“Cool,” she says with an air of native authority, as if she has any clue where Queensbridge is; as if, when she was a kid and the school bus took them through Harlem en route to midtown for field trips—museums, Broadway—she didn’t press her face to the bus windows with the other kids and stare at the spectacle of a world of black people. “I was born in the city,” she adds after a pause. “My parents lived in this tiny apartment on the Lower East Side. It’s this immigrant neighborhood.”

Clive and Edwin nod blankly in response. Her face burns. She wanted them to know her family hasn’t always been filthy rich, but it didn’t land how she wanted. What’s wrong with her, bragging about how her parents were poor for, like, five minutes, before she was even born? She’s been doing this kind of thing at college, too. Just the other day she told Nika a story from last summer at her family’s “cottage” at the shore, and now she’s stuck, because she wants to invite Nika out there to visit this summer, but then not only will Nika see just how rich Alison’s family is, she will also know that Alison is the kind of person who refers to a huge freaking beach house as a cottage, which is even worse than the huge freaking house itself. It’s not just her, though. Every rich kid at college does this. They all have a “cottage,” or forebears they seem very keen to talk about who came to America from some shtetl or Irish potato farm, or they’re “from Chicago” when really they live in Winnetka. (In the past three months she has learned the fancy suburbs surrounding all of the major cities in the country.) They are pathological minimizers, telling their half-truths and hoping for some kind of credit.

“It drives me nuts that my parents moved out of the city to raise us,” she says, changing tack. “I mean, you’re in the greatest city on earth, and you leave for some lame suburb?”

“But isn’t New York quite dangerous?” Clive asks.

She shrugs. “You just have to pay attention.”

ONE EVENING when she is standing with them in the parking lot after work, Clive proposes they go down to the water for a swim.

“I’m game,” Alison says.

“Nah, nah. My boy’s stalling,” Edwin says with a mirthful shake of his head.