“Gross,” Poppy said. “I used to work at a restaurant. I know the type.”

Roxie tossed her golden braid over her shoulder and glanced at her watch. “Time for me to head back in,” she said. “Take it easy out there, OK? Don’t overdo it.”

Poppy said, “Reckon I’ll be walking most of the rest of it. Thanks again for the cigarette.”

“Anytime.”

Poppy looked back into the diner, a charming scene with checkered tablecloths, framed photographs of fish and sailboats and beaches and sunsets, and old-fashioned stainless-steel napkin dispensers and sugar jars on every table. She thought perhaps she’d bring John for breakfast tomorrow morning, request Roxie for their server so they could leave her a generous tip. She and Roxie might share a fun moment or a wink as they told John how they had met this morning while Poppy was out for a run, but they would deliberately leave out the part about the cigarette.

Poppy always got a warm, happy, and hopeful feeling when she was around young women who worked in restaurants. It made her feel like the world really didn’t change all that much, that life was still good, people were still alright. There was still a lot to recognize and like in one another. She left the diner and made her way up the street to her intended destination, where she paused to stretch against the coin-operated binoculars that faced the beach.

Seagulls dove and stabbed at things in the water. There was a decent swell, and she imagined the surfers would be out there riding it at any moment. She listened to grunts and the ping of rackets from nearby tennis courts. The sun was beginning to rise over the water, the tiniest sliver of gold appearing at the horizon, the brightness of it violent against the dark and distant ocean. She enjoyed this view for a bit, the gold swelling and appearing to pulse against the sea as the sun worked its way up and out, gradually setting the horizon on fire.

Then she headed back toward the house, jogging for short intervals, the stomach cramp finally shaking loose, her body finally feeling strong.

With Roxie’s indictment of “sleazy rich losers” on her mind, Poppy’s thoughts turned to what Lisa had said yesterday about the likelihood that Scott was having an affair. Just when they were coming up on their twentieth anniversary and everything. It made Poppy hot and queasy with spite.

When they were teenagers, Poppy had been the one the boys flocked to, with boobs already in the eighth grade, the big hair and big personality, the naughty jokes. Lisa was her awkward sidekick, gangly and pale, taller than all the boys in the class, which was such a humiliation that she experimented with a hundred different postures to conceal her height, until she pinched a nerve in her neck. But within months of graduating from high school, Lisa began to appreciate her long legs and show them off with short shorts and miniskirts. She developed curves and learned how to apply makeup that suited her green eyes and pale complexion.