He sat beside his wife, both of them dangling their feet in the bright blue water. They were holding hands, on and off, but they kept having to let go to stop Robbie from drowning himself. The little rat kept lunging off the pool steps. Whoever was closer would leap down and drag him back. He trusted his water wings too much. He trusted the whole damn world too much.

On the other hand, his trust was kind of lovely.

He went again, and Bree leaped after him. Robbie was positive, with the willful surety of three-year-olds, that he could swim all the way to the deep end and join his sisters on their colorful floats.

“Stay on the steps,” Bree said again, dragging him back.

He crunched his whole face up and said his favorite word. “No! I wanna go to da floaps!”

The last word devolved into a howl. Marshall got up and lifted him out in one smooth move and carried him away from the pool. Bree’s mom had come along to babysit while they dove each morning. Now she was in the shade of the villa’s long porch, reading her book. Marshall toted his son, writhing and protesting, back to her.

He plunked Robbie down on the lounge chair by Shelly Ann and said, “Time out, kiddo.”

Robbie hurled himself prone, weeping dramatically.

Marshall turned to Shelly Ann. “Can I top you off?”

“It’s just juice!” she said.

“I know.”

“It’s not even one o’clock.”

Vigilant as ever. No way she would drink with the kids in the pool. Even with Marshall and Bree right there.

“Five minutes,” Marshall said to Robbie, who responded by savagely kicking the cushions.

Marshall left him to seethe at the terrible injustice and got a couple cans of Modelo from the patio’s mini-fridge. He brought them back poolside and handed Bree one, sitting next to her, close. She popped hers open and then took his hand.

On the patio Robbie let out a heaving, dramatic sigh. They exchanged smiles.

“So this is three,” Bree said.

“Oh, yeah,” he agreed.

They sat watching the girls drift, holding hands and drinking their cold beers, until it got quiet. Marshall glanced back.

Robbie had forgotten he was in time-out. He was trying industriously to open A-C’s water bottle. He was always like this, busy and engaged and into things, his brow furrowed with concentration. He was like his father, for all that he called laid-back Marshall “Daddy.” A-C and Peyton called him Marshall, of course. He loved Bree’s girls, deeply, and they loved him, but they were Trey’s. It would be disrespectful to try to bust that up by asking them to call him “Dad,” like Cara did.