John, Lisa, and Poppy were playing Spades inside, and once the children had changed out of swimwear and into pajamas, they joined for a few hands until John became too tired to continue.

Before dispersing for bed, they discussed plans for the next day.

John suggested a fishing trip; Barry had recommended a strip between Fripp and Pritchards Islands where someone had pulled in a bunch of flounder the other day. There were places where they could rent crab pots too, John said. Alex said she wanted to join him for that.

Lisa was hoping to check out the art gallery and maybe rent some bikes later in the week. She guessed that Scott would probably want to get another round of golf in.

Kimmy said, “Can I go into your room and put a tinfoil hat on Daddy while he’s sleeping?”

Lisa said, “Let’s just let Daddy sleep.”

• • •

Scott was shirtless in bed, mouth agape, snoring lightly. The room smelled bad, of gas.

As Lisa got ready for bed, her thoughts turned to her conversation with Scott back in January when they had decided to invite John and Poppy on this vacation. She couldn’t believe Scott had had the gall to accuse John of having a drinking problem. Scott had never once breathed a word of concern for any of his heavy-drinking friends, who frequently behaved as Scott had tonight; men in their forties and fifties egging each other on and drinking until they puked, a bunch of washed-up and depressing overage frat brothers. And John was the one with the problem? The hypocrisy was astounding. Of course, people were less inclined to toss the word “alcoholic” around when your drink of choice was twenty-five-year-old Scotch or a nice Bordeaux rather than Evan Williams or a forty. As in every facet of life, wealth wasn’t only money, it was also protection, the benefit of the doubt. Anyway, Lisa couldn’t tell Poppy what Scott had said about John back in January—Poppy would flip her shit. Better to save that anecdote for after the divorce.

Lisa brushed her teeth and leaned close to the mirror to examine a flaky bit of skin under her eye. Salt water always caused this. She spat into the sink and then applied cream to the dry spot.

She crawled into bed and squeezed foam plugs into her ears. She was a light sleeper, couldn’t tolerate any noise from Scott. She faced away from him, toward the wall, which displayed a pastel watercolor painting of a gull standing at the water’s edge, gazing stoically out at whitecaps and a pink sunrise or sunset. She closed her eyes.