You encounter someone like Paul and you wonder how close you can be to someone like that.” Still, Joel told me, “he’s a Beatle, so there’s an intimidation factor. Billy Joel, who has sold out Madison Square Garden more than a hundred times, has spent Hamptons afternoons over the years with McCartney. This effect extends to friends and peers. There are myriad ways in which people betray their pleasure in encountering him-describing their favorite songs, asking for selfies and autographs, or losing their composure entirely. McCartney greets his guests with the same twinkly smile and thumbs-up charm that once led him to be called “the cute Beatle.” Even in a crowd of the accomplished and abundantly self-satisfied, he is invariably the focus of attention. Would he like one? He narrows his gaze, trying to decide then, with executive dispatch, he declines. Bloomberg nods gravely at whatever Shevell is saying, but he has his eyes fixed on a plate of exquisite little pizzas. A slender, regal woman in her early sixties, Shevell is talking in a confiding manner with Michael Bloomberg, who was the mayor of New York City when she served on the board of the Metropolitan Transportation Authority. Their hosts are Nancy Shevell, the scion of a New Jersey trucking family, and her husband, Paul McCartney, a bass player and singer-songwriter from Liverpool. Through the gate, they mount a flight of stairs to the front door and walk across a vaulted living room to a fragrant back yard, where a crowd is circulating under a tent in the familiar high-life way, regarding the territory, pausing now and then to accept refreshments from a tray. They all wear expectant, delighted-to-be-invited expressions. And out they come, face after famous face, burnished, expensively moisturized: Jerry Seinfeld, Jimmy Buffett, Anjelica Huston, Julianne Moore, Stevie Van Zandt, Alec Baldwin, Jon Bon Jovi. At the last driveway on a road ending at the beach, a cortège of cars-S.U.V.s, jeeps, candy-colored roadsters-pull up to the gate, sand crunching pleasantly under the tires.

The surf is rough and pounds its regular measure on the shore.

Early evening in late summer, the golden hour in the village of East Hampton.

Let the record show book