“It’s actually a landmark,” I say. “Bert, drive around the wall.”

Bert crosses the bridge where Lester lost his life. I look down into the Owasco Outlet at the water glinting in the sunlight. We go right on Route 5, separated from the south wall by the outlet. Everyone looks at the long gray canker rising up from the center of the town.

“Imagine,” I say, “we’re only seven miles from the most pristine and exclusive waterfront in the state.”

“The Hamptons are farther than that,” Rangle’s wife says.

I look in the back to see Rangle nodding with a smug smile, beaming at his wife’s comment.

“Of course,” I say.

We pass the powerhouse and turn right again on Washington Street where the road runs right smack beside the west wall.

“How high is it?” Allen asks, craning his neck.

“Forty feet,” I say.

“My God,” Villay’s young wife says in disgust, and no one speaks until we are on our way out of town.

When we get into the village of Skaneateles, Bert turns right on West Lake Street. Villay goes bolt upright and grabs the back of Bert’s seat. When I look back at him, his yellow eyes are wide and the skin on his tan face is pulled tight.

“Where are we going?” he asks.

“To the house,” I say.

His hand is on his young wife’s leg and she is clutching it as if he’s not squeezing her hard enough.

“But you’re on the east side,” he says, forcing a smile. “That’s what you said.”

“Oh, I don’t really know,” I say with a shrug, not taking my eyes off of him. “East, west, I don’t pay too much attention.”

“You said the sunsets. You get the sunsets. I said that and you said you did.”

“Did I?” I say, raising my eyebrows and glancing at Bert as if he might know. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know it mattered.”

“No,” he says, eyeing his wife. “I’m just…”

As his voice fades, tension fills the truck. No one speaks.

“Pretty homes,” Rangle’s wife says with a sigh. “I suppose if I’ve got to be here, this is the right street.”

“That place belonged to Teddy Roosevelt’s sister,” I say, pointing to the classical white monster on the hilltop between the lake and us.

We’re almost there now and I wonder if Villay will feel anything close to the shock I experienced on the night I was to be given the party nomination twenty years ago. Bert begins to slow and I hear Christina Villay suck in a mouthful of air as we turn into the two stone gateposts and start up the winding drive. The big yellow Second Empire house appears through the trees, and a small moan escapes Villay. I look back. His and his wife’s faces are frozen and their bodies have gone rigid.

“Are you all right, Christina?” I ask.

“I’m… I think carsick. The motion.”

Bert pulls to a stop in front of the house.

“Let’s get you out,” I say, jogging around to Villay’s side of the truck. I open the door and Villay slides out. I hold out my hand to his wife. But she isn’t moving.

“I’ll… just… sit here for a few minutes,” she says, staring straight ahead. Her creamy complexion has a green cast and her teeth are clenched.

“Honey, come on,” Villay says, wedging in beside me and taking her arm. “You’ll be all right.”

She snatches her arm free and glares at him. “You let me go!”

Dani gets out on the other side, looking away. She pushes the seat forward. Allen, Rangle, and his wife slip out of the truck and make their way to the front steps, where they pause to look back at the scene.

“She’ll be all right,” Villay says to me, wide-eyed. “She’s not feeling well. Please, you all go on in. I’ll stay with her for a minute.”

I shrug and turn to the others, pointing up the steps. Bert is unloading the luggage from the back.

“Come on,” I say, “I’ll show you to your rooms and you can change before lunch if you’d like. Bert will take care of the bags.”

“I’ll get mine,” Allen says. He hurries back, pulls his bag out of Bert’s hands, and takes Dani’s too.

I apologize for being old-fashioned, but tell them since I didn’t know how they normally do things that I’ve prepared separate rooms for Dani and Allen. I show them to their rooms and ask them to make themselves at home. Lunch will be at one and until then they can either head out on the lake with me for some fishing or relax down on the dock or on the back porch.

“I have a woman, Verna, who’ll be down in the boathouse giving massages for anyone who’d like one,” I say. “She’s the best there is. Hands like an ironworker.”

Allen asks if he can do anything to help. I tell him just have a beer down on the dock and that I’ll meet him there to go fishing in a few minutes. On my way downstairs, I pass Bert coming up.

“Still there?” I ask.

He looks back and grunts. When I walk out onto the porch, Villay and his wife are shouting at each other. When they see me, they stop and stare. Villay runs a hand through his curly hair and forces a smile.

“Your room is the first one on the left when you go upstairs,” I say with a smile that suggests it’s perfectly normal for them to be acting this way. “I’ll be down at the dock. We’ll hold the boat for you, Dean. I think you should join us and throw a line in the water. Christina, just ask one of the girls if you need anything. And I’ve got a masseuse down at the boathouse if you’d like a massage.”

“Thank you,” Dean Villay says. “I’m sorry. Christina’s feeling better. We’ll be there soon.”

I nod, then go back into the house. My bedroom suite takes up the entire south end of the house, and from the sitting room, I peer out behind the curtains at the two of them, watching their hands stab the air as they bare their teeth. Finally, ten minutes later, they embrace and then Villay helps his wife down out of the truck.

WHEN PEOPLE THINK of upstate New York, they think of winter. Brutal cold and storms that dump four or five feet of snow. But the most vicious weather comes in the summer when a warm placid day is suddenly transformed by violent thunder, lightning, and wind that makes children whimper and smells like the end of the world.

Bert has the TV in the living room on without the sound. He points to the screen as I walk past.

“See that?” he says.

I stop and look at the radar map. A dark green wall with a belly of red, yellow, and orange oozes slowly from west to east across the backside of Ohio toward western New York.

“Looks bad,” I say, peering outside at the sun-drenched back lawn.

“It will be,” Bert says.

“Turn that off, okay?” I say.

Down on the expansive teak dock, Rangle’s wife and daughter are lounging on deck chairs, oiled up, with their faces tilted toward the sun. Allen and Rangle are already on board the twenty-eight-foot party boat. Bert gets behind the wheel and the motor puffs blue smoke into the clean air. Villay hurries down the path, across the dock, and hops on board the boat with another apology for holding things up. Bert casts off and we ease out toward the middle of the lake.

Allen digs into the cooler and passes out bottles of Heineken. We talk about the color of the water and the smattering of new homes that mar the crest of the far hills. When we get to where the fish are, Bert drops the anchor and begins handing out fully rigged poles. I scoop up a shiner out of the bait bucket and hold up the wriggling minnow for everyone to see.

I look at Villay as I speak.