This is The writer's voice, new fiction from the New Yorker. I'm Deborah Treisman,

fiction at the New Yorker. On this week's episode of the writer's voice, we'll hear and issue of the magazine. Lee is the author of eight books of fiction including the novels

Must I Go and the Book of Goose, and the story collection Wednesday's Child, which was a

finalist for this year's Pulitzer Prize in fiction. A new non-fiction book, Things in Nature

merely grow, will be published next year. Now here's Yew and Lee. The particles of water was to arrive in the later.

The particles of water.

The guests from America was to arrive in the late afternoon.

Ursula, having arranged the welcome platter,

waited until she heard a car slowing down in the driveway.

Its gravel rained all day by the rain,

before drizzling some honey in broad strokes on the cheese and the nuts.

From the kitchen window, she could see the cab driver.

Timothy today.

Place a suitcase next to the door, heavy, as demonstrated by his eloquent grimace.

Likely, he had entertained his fair with one of his two America-related stories.

The cousin who had done life in Singing, or the great-grand uncle escaping Alcatraz on a stormy night.

Visitors from America were rare, or else Timothy would have invented more credible family

legends.

The woman, Lillian Pan, smiled tiredly as she got out of the car and thanked Timothy. She was between 45 and 55 Ursula

estimated a time when some people's lives come into order while others fall out of it.

It was made January, not the best season for anyone

to holiday in the Devon countryside, particularly alone.

...