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“Yes,” I say. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Beck says. It’s the first time we’ve said it to each other. We kiss, and then we sleep. In the morning, Henry seems far away, unreal. In the kitchen I find my mug in the sink, the chairs pulled together at the table, and what comes back to me is I’m sure it all balances, somehow, and I love you, too.

Chance Encounter

Monday, August 2, 2010 (Clare is 39, Oliver is 59)

Clare: Richard and Kimy have taken Alba and Nadia to the beach, so I have the day to myself. Before I can begin work in my studio, I need to go to the grocery store, and once I’m at the store I decide to buy some supplies for the Yellow House. I park the car across the street, pop the trunk and gather up some of the grocery bags. As I walk toward the house, I realize that many of the windows are open; intricate music spills into the garden. I see a man sitting at the piano in the living room. I don’t think he notices me. Should I leave? My curiosity overpowers my discretion. I walk around the house to the back door and quietly let myself into the kitchen. The music stops.

“Alba?”

I put the groceries on the kitchen table and call out, “Hello?”

A tall, white-haired Chinese man steps into the kitchen. “Clare,” he says, evidently very surprised. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Same here,” I say. He seems to know me. I am not sure if I should fess up to not knowing him. I feel pretty confident that this is the mysterious other occupant of the Yellow House and not a random burglar—in addition to knowing my name, he’s wearing linen trousers from the closet upstairs and one of Henry’s old CBGB’s T-shirts that teenage Alba likes to sleep in—but I can’t know for sure without admitting my ignorance. He has a friendly, open manner that makes me like him immediately. “I brought some groceries.”

“Thank you so much,” he says. “I went to the shops a few days ago, but things are running low again. Should we put them away?”

“There’s some frozen vegetables, but otherwise it’s all shelf-stable,” I assure him. We spend a few minutes distributing the groceries into the pantry and cabinets, as though we do this together all the time.

He says, “Can I offer you something to drink?” His accent is English. Everything about him seems familiar, but I know I haven’t met him before.

“Just water,” I say. “It’s heating up out there.”

“Too true.” He pours a glass of water from the pitcher in the fridge and hands it to me. “Let’s sit in the front room, I’ve got some fans going.” We walk through the dusty, unused dining room into the living room, where the floor is covered with sheet music laid out in meticulous rows and anchored with various objects (shoes, teacups, cans of soup, books) so the fans don’t blow it all away. There’s an ashtray next to the piano with a lit cigarette burnt almost to the filter, and a glass of orange juice on the floor by an egg-smeared plate.

“Sorry it’s so untidy, I’ve been working all night. I was thinking about going to sleep when I heard you come in.”

I step through the music and perch on the sofa, holding my glass of water cautiously. He stubs out the cigarette, sits on the piano bench with his back to the piano, crosses one leg over the other and cradles his hands in his lap so that each hand gently enfolds the opposite wrist. He is wearing the wedding ring that usually sits in the bedroom upstairs, on the dresser next to the cuff links and the vintage men’s watch. He smiles, and I notice how asymmetrical his face is.

“You’re looking well,” he says. “How is Beck?”

I blush, as I often do when anyone suddenly mentions Beck. “She’s great.”

He studies me. “What year is it, Clare?” The question confirms my assumption that this man is a time traveler.

“2010. What year are you coming from?”

“2088.”

The familiar exchange is comforting; I feel an unearned intimacy with this stranger. “So long from now.” My voice sounds wistful.

He replies, “In 2010 my parents haven’t met yet. How old is Alba now?”

“Eight. When will your parents meet?”

“In 2019, during a protest at the airport in Hong Kong. My father was a businessman then, on his way back to Shanghai when protesters took over the airport and he was stranded.” He hesitates, as though he expects me to doubt him. “He was in the men’s room, shaving, when he realized that someone was hiding in one of the stalls. Then the police came and asked him if he’d seen a young woman, and he said no. My father was so respectable looking that they apologized for bothering him and went away. When he opened the door of the stall, he found my mother standing on the toilet, covered in blood. He helped her wash, bought her some clean clothes, used some of his frequent flier miles to get her a plane ticket, bribed immigration officials to let her through, and got her out of there. Six months later, they both had new identities and they married. I still have no idea what their original names were.”

“That’s extraordinary. Was she badly hurt?”

“It was someone else’s blood.” He smiles apologetically. “That’s all I know about it, I’m afraid. My uncle told me that story long after my parents died. When I was a child I never asked much about their lives before me. Children are so self-absorbed.”

“I was, as a child. I don’t think Alba is.” I wonder if this man shadows Alba’s childhood the way Henry did mine. She’s never admitted to knowing who occupies the bedroom at the end of the hall, but I was an accomplished liar from an early age; I wonder again if it runs in the family.

“I never met Alba as a child,” he says, as though reading my thoughts. “She was twenty-four when she first met me, and I was sixteen when I met her. For a long time, we were only musical collaborators, and of course, housemates.” He seems to think he’s explained something when he’s only made me more curious. “You and Beck met very recently?”

“Last winter, but I feel as though I’ve known her for a long time. Alba’s already pronounced us married—I think she nearly scared Beck off.”