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along. The soft sand farther back toward the dunes was level, except where the fat tires of off-road four-by-fours and pickup trucks had carved their tracks in the sand. It gave my arches a workout. I sat down near the dunes with my back against a log. Then it took me a dozen tries to strike a match. Next time, I’d bring my lighter.
    As I dragged deep, I decided lolling on the beach was idyllic only in the eye of the beholder. First I sat on a clam shell. Then two big green glistening flies decided my legs made a tasty snack. When I stood up, the hot sand burned the soles of my feet. Then I had to pee. I thought better of relieving myself on the beach or into the water. No pissing on the Hamptons. As my sponsor kept telling me, it was better not to do anything I’d have to make amends for later. Besides, the beach was anything but deserted. People kept walking by. Families with kids and dogs. I didn’t want to get arrested. Using the dunes as an outhouse was not an option either. Eastern Long Island was a hotbed of environmental activism. I didn’t feel inclined to clamber up past the sign that said that walking on the dunes was
verboten
.
    I smoked my cigarette down to the filter, tossed it into the sand, and kicked some more sand over it. Then I trudged back toward Oscar’s house. He’d invited us to use the facilities and help ourselves to soda from the refrigerator. The big weathered cedar ark had decks fore and aft and plate glass windows on the ocean side. Peering in, I saw no sign of life apart from brightly colored tropical fish swimming in a wall-mounted aquarium.
    The door gave when I pushed it. People left their doors unlocked out here. Amazing. I found myself in a kind of mud room, or rather, sand room, with terra cotta tiles cool beneath my feet. A wall of hooks and cubbies. Washing machine and dryer. Towels, flip-flops, a broom, a couple of clamming rakes. The living room lay beyond it. Nobody there. The faint scent of tobacco hung in the air. Oscar’s house was not a no-smoking zone. I thought of calling out. Instead, I crossed to the kitchen. It was vast, with marble counters, gleaming steel appliances, and a forest of gleaming copper-bottomed pots hanging from the ceiling. The whole kitchen could have been photographed for a gourmet or design magazine.
    The light from the big picture window provided a transition from the dazzle outside. I heard what sounded like a moan from the other end of the house. A dark corridor led toward other rooms, probably bedrooms. Again, I thought of calling out, decided not to. My bare feet made no sound on the hardwood floor. I followed the moaning, which got louder and more unmistakable as I got closer. It was none of my business who was having a quickie in the middle of the afternoon. But I was curious. I suppose spying was one of those things I would be expected to make amends for. But I rationalized it. I couldn’t embarrass them by saying I’d seen them screwing, could I? If I knew who it was, I’d know who not to embarrass, right? It didn’t convince me either. But snooping was better than sneaking a drink. I wondered if Oscar had a cold frosty in his refrigerator.
    That’s why they call it a slip. It can sneak right up on you when you’re thinking of something else. But hey, I didn’t do it. I felt downright virtuous as I tiptoed closer to the duet of moans and panting and the thump of a rocking bed. They hadn’t shut the door all the way. I applied my eye to the crack.
    It seemed to be the master bedroom, a corner room with plate glass on two sides. The light flooding in was amplified by a mirror over the bed. I caught a glimpse of my startled face in the reflected shadows around the door. I jerked my head back. Luckily the couple now reaching paradise and making a joyful noise were too focused to look up. The guy was Oscar. The woman was Karen.

Chapter Six
    “So Karen is cheating on Lewis,” Barbara said.
    We sat squinched together on a lifeguard