“I really don’t,” Drum said.

“All right,” Hadley said. “Okay.”

“You could, though,” Margot said. “You could give Curtis a surfing lesson. We don’t have anything going on the rest of the week. You could meet him anytime. You could meet him tomorrow morning.”

Drum hadn’t touched his pistachio ice cream. It was starting to drip. He smiled at Curtis. “There’s a guy who hangs out down at Cisco Beach named Elvis. He gives lessons.”

Hadley shook her head. “No,” she said. “That’s not going to work.”

“Oh,” Drum said. “Right.”

Margot looked between Hadley and Drum. She had never heard of anyone named Elvis, although he was clearly a holdover from their surfing days. Maybe he was one of the people in the group photos in Drum’s underwear drawer. Maybe Hadley had slept with Elvis. Margot would have to ask Drum later.

Curtis kicked a pebble and it ricocheted off the side of the building. “That’s okay,” he said. “My dad said he’d teach me when I go to Hawaii in February.”

Drum smiled at the kid. “Your dad is a great surfer.”

Hadley made a face. She said, “February is fine, but it’s six months away. I thought it would be nice if Curtis could learn the basics now. He’s ready.”

“I can wait,” Curtis said.

Drum coughed and stared at the melting ice cream in his hand as though he couldn’t figure out what it was doing there. To Margot he said, “We have nothing tomorrow morning?”

“My dad is taking the kids out for breakfast,” Margot said. “And I’m going running. But you are as free as a bird.”

“I’ll meet you at seven o’clock,” Drum said to Curtis. “At the antenna. You have a board, or I should bring one of mine for you?”

“I have a board,” Curtis said.

“Oh, thank you!” Hadley said. “This is so great!”

“Great!” Margot said.


When she told Drum about the pregnancy, Margot had been certain he would insist on terminating. Despite their luminous summer together, their lives were about to go in different directions. Drum was heading back to Aspen to ski, and then in late March he was flying to Sri Lanka to surf. Margot had her job waiting in the city. She was going to wear a suit every day and get an expense account. The managing partner of Miller, Sawtooth, Harry Fry, loved Margot. He saw something in her-a tenaciousness, a natural instinct-that made him believe she would succeed. His faith in her would be shattered if he knew she had allowed herself to become accidentally pregnant at the age of twenty-five. Go home, he would say. Spend your days drinking wine out of sippy cups with the other mommies at the Bleecker Street playground. Or hire a nanny and do charity work. Harry Fry would never have hired Margot if he’d known this was going to happen.

But instead of giving Margot the money for an abortion, Drum had taken Margot to dinner at the Blue Bistro, where the waiter served her a diamond ring embedded in an Island Creek oyster. When Margot saw the ring, she ran to the ladies’ room to vomit. Once she returned to the table, Drum had cleaned off the ring; it was perched in its velvet box where it belonged.

He said, “I want you to marry me.”

She said, “Aren’t you supposed to ask?”

He said, “Margot Carmichael, will you marry me?”

Margot knew the sane answer was no. It would never work. Neither a baby nor a husband figured into her plans-not now, possibly not ever. But there was the specter of those drunken, late-night phone calls, a loneliness so profound that Margot had cried, despite living in a city of eight million people. She thought, Drummond Bain, King of the South Shore, wants to marry me. As it turned out, her heart was only steel-plated on three sides. As it turned out, her body was holding on to the cluster of cells growing inside her.

“Okay,” she said.

“Okay?” Drum said. “Aren’t you supposed to say yes or no?”

“Yes,” Margot said.


When Margot was a junior in college, she had “fallen in love” with a graduate teaching assistant in her philosophy course, a Canadian named Reese.

Reese had not reciprocated Margot’s love. Reese had also, thankfully, not seen fit to use Margot for sex and walk away. Reese had been a good guy. When Margot made her feelings known to him one night in the reserve reading room over a confusing passage of Hume, Reese had held her chin and told her the following words about love.

“Nobody knows where it comes from,” he said. “And nobody knows where it goes.”


Where does it go? Margot wondered.


That night, after the kids were in bed and Margot and Drum were sharing the bathroom, washing the stickiness from their hands, Margot said, “Who’s Elvis?”

Drum said, “This guy.”

Margot waited him out. He knew that answer wasn’t close to sufficient.

Drum said, “He was always cool with me. He developed a little bit of an obsession with Hadley, I guess. Called her all the time, sometimes didn’t say anything, just breathed into the phone. Drove his pickup back and forth in front of her rental house, showed up at the gallery where she worked, that kind of thing.”

“And this was…? Before you? After you? During Colin?”

“Oh, God,” Drum said. “Who can remember?”


The winter of the drunken late-night phone calls-which was the winter after the summer that Margot and Drum had first dated, which was also the summer that Hadley had taken a break from Colin, reunited with Drum, then left Drum and returned to Colin-Hadley traveled out to Aspen on the sly. She showed up at the Aspen Club Lodge, where Drum was working the night desk in exchange for a season’s ski pass, and they shacked up together for a week, until Colin appeared, banging on the door, claiming to have a gun. Drum said he knew Colin didn’t have a gun, he knew Colin was just sad, and desperate at the thought of losing Hadley, and so Drum opened the door and let Colin in. Margot imagined some kind of hairy scene where Drum and Colin battled over Hadley, but Drum said it was low drama. Drum explained to Colin that he and Hadley had had some unfinished emotional business, but that it had been brought to a close. Hadley was free to go with Colin if that was what she wanted. Drum was going to pursue this other girl he’d met, a girl who lived in New York.

Drum and Hadley, Hadley and Colin, Drum and Margot, Drum and Hadley, Hadley and Colin, Hadley and Jan Jaap, Colin in Hawaii hiking the ridges of active volcanoes and drinking mai tais with the descendants of Princess Kaiulani, Hadley and the Private Equity Guy who shopped for her at Hermès, Margot who had spent the past eighteen months wondering where love went when it left, where could she find it, how could she get it back?

In bed, she said, “I’m glad you’re giving Curtis a surfing lesson tomorrow.”

Drum said, “I’m not.”


Their life in New York had been enviable from the outside, she supposed. Drum’s parents had bought them an apartment on East Seventy-Third Street, a spacious three-bedroom in a prewar building with good water pressure and crown molding and a responsive superintendent. Margot worked at Miller, Sawtooth, and Drum cared for the kids practically the same day she popped them out. Margot expressed milk in her office between meetings, and Drum would wait in the lobby of her building for Margot’s assistant to run the bottles down to him. Drum changed the diapers, he hand-puréed baby food, he took the boys to the playground and to their baby classes in Spanish and classical music. He did the shopping and all of the cooking and the laundry. On his downtime, he smoked weed and watched Warren Miller films. Once the kids were in school, he took up running; he dropped fifteen pounds. He spent time on the Internet planning their vacations to Costa Rica and Park City to surf and ski. On these vacations, Margot cared for the kids while Drum did his thing-eight to ten hours a day on the water or the slopes. Margot wanted to complain, but she knew that, for Drum, this was working. It was professional fulfillment.

Meanwhile, Margot toiled and strove and accomplished at Miller, Sawtooth. She appreciated the foot rubs and the glass of chardonnay when she got home, and the hot mushroom strudel with arugula salad at her place at the dinner table, but sometimes she looked at Drum and thought, Why are you slaving over me this way? Why don’t you get something for yourself?

They became friends with a couple named Teresa and Avery Benedict, the parents of Maurice, who was Drum Jr.’s best buddy at preschool. Teresa and Drum Sr. had forged the friendship; they started going for coffee after dropping off the kids. Sometimes they hung out together all morning-shopping, going for lunch. Teresa bought Drum Sr. a gift subscription to Bon Appétit; the two of them shared recipes. The two of them-Margot was sure-complained about their spouses and the obscene hours they worked and how grouchy they were when they came home. Margot wondered if Teresa and Drum Sr. were having an affair. And then one day she realized she wanted them to have an affair-she wanted them to drop the kids off at school and go back to one apartment or the other and fuck until they were sweaty and seeing stars.

Margot once said, “So, what do you think of Teresa?”

Drum said, “What do you mean, what do I think?”

“You like her, right?”

“Yes, I like her. Of course I like her. She’s cool.”

“Do you ever…”

“Do I ever what, Margot?”

“Do you ever…”

“No,” Drum said. “I don’t.”


There were other tense conversations, whispered late at night, after the boys were asleep.

Margot said: It’s exhausting, you know, being the only one who brings home a paycheck.

Drum said: You don’t have to work as hard as you do, Margot. The apartment is paid for. You could make half of what you do and we’d be fine.