At home the house was quiet. He opened the fridge and found it clean and stacked with food. Was Delilah planning a party? Had she meant to have people over here, after the event? There was a case of cold Heineken lined up like green glass soldiers in the bottom drawer, and Jeffrey grabbed one.

There was a note on the kitchen counter, which he hadn’t seen when he’d rushed in at six-thirty to get dressed. A note? It was a regular white index card. Written in black Sharpie, it said, This does not mean I don’t love you, I do, that’s forever. Yes and for always. He read the index card again. It was a lyric from “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes.” Greg used to sing the song all the damn time and Delilah sang along in harmony. The first third of the suite was, in Delilah’s estimation, the most perfect song ever written.

Was this note meant for him? It was in Delilah’s handwriting. Was it old, or had she meant for him to find it tonight? He tried her cell phone again.

You have to go, no matter what. Promise me.

The back of his throat ached. He went upstairs to the boys’ rooms. In both rooms, the beds looked like they had been made up by chambermaids at the Ritz-Carlton. The dressers were tidy, drawers pushed all the way closed. He opened the drawers. Were there clothes missing? The drawers did look emptyish, as they tended to when Delilah let the laundry slide.

Jeffrey took a deep breath.

He did not like drama, nor did he like to jump to conclusions. But he didn’t like the way things were stacking up: a fridge full of food, the clean house, pretty beds, neat dressers, the note. He had thought things were getting better. He had congratulated himself; he had waited out Delilah’s instability and the storm had cleared. Delilah was correcting. But no.

ADDISON

The house was impeccably clean, but Addison straightened up anyway. He wiped dust out of a wineglass. Andrea drank chardonnay. Addison had a whole wine cooler full of whites, and there, on the bottom shelf, were two bottles of his favorite Mersault, the wine he and Tess had drunk at lunch at Nous Deux, the wine Addison swore he would never drink again. He opened the bottle.

Tess had a lover.

He looked in the pantry for snacks. Mixed nuts, a box of Bremner Wafers. Did they have any cheese? He checked the fridge. No cheese.

He tasted the Mersault, poured a glass for Andrea, then decided he would pour a glass for himself even though he had vowed never to drink it again. He handed Andrea her glass and put the nuts in a bowl. Andrea said nothing. He should put on music.

He said, “Where should we sit?”

She said, “Oh, Jesus, Add, I don’t give a shit.”

This was somehow exactly the right answer. It struck the right tone: they were going to be frank with each other. Addison was going to suggest they sit out by the pool, but that seemed too pleasant. There were two barstools at the counter. Addison sat, then Andrea sat, and Addison set the bowl of nuts equidistant between them.

“So,” he said.

“Let’s not talk,” Andrea said. “Let’s just drink for a while.”

Addison nodded. Fair enough, he thought. The effects of six Jack Daniels had hit him; he was now officially drunk. Andrea probably needed ten more drinks before she was ready to hear what he had to tell her. But Addison couldn’t wait. He said, “I was having an affair with Tess. I was in love with her.”

Andrea drank her wine. She said nothing.

She drank the whole glass in three minutes; Addison was timing her. He refilled her glass; his hand was shaking. He wanted her to say something, but he was afraid of what she would say.

I’m sorry, he said to Tess.

He felt a hundred pounds lighter. He felt like he could take the back stairs two at a time and leap across the swimming pool.

Andrea was staring into space; her face was halfway between contempt and what he thought might be relief. Andrea was tough, and always had been. Addison tried to remember when the two of them had ever been alone together like this for any length of time. In Vegas they had sought out the slot machines together. Andrea had been feeding the machine next to his when he hit for seventeen hundred dollars. She had been the first person to hug him and jump up and down as the machine blinked his good fortune. On September 11, she had come to the hospital where the doctor was examining Phoebe after her miscarriage. She had hugged Addison and moaned with him. She had checked in every day for weeks, stopping by with homemade soup and doughnuts from the Downyflake. Addison remembered wandering with Andrea through the National Gallery in London. They had stopped in front of Renoir’s painting Les Parapluies. And then there was the time Addison and Andrea had taken the surfing lesson in Sayulita, Mexico, with a grungy expat named Kelso.

Addison broke the silence by saying, “Do you remember that surfing lesson we took?”

She did not respond. Addison had been the most unlikely surfing partner in existence, but the Chief and Jeffrey in their stoic, stony way had flat-out refused, and Greg was such a good surfer already that he didn’t want or need to take a beginner lesson. Phoebe was too prissy, Delilah was too uncoordinated, and Tess was afraid of the water. Which left Addison. Andrea pleaded. Come on. I’ve never asked you for anything.

He gave in because she was correct, she had never asked him for anything. Together they donned wetsuits and paddled out on their boards to chest-high water, where Kelso, the goateed, tattooed, pierced, stoned surf instructor, pushed them into waves. Andrea stood first, then, a hundred tries later, Addison stood. It had been a revelation, riding the water like that, even for a few seconds before the inevitable crash. He and Andrea had talked about it with Kelso over beers at the cantina later.