“You always assume the worst of me.” Scott looked directly at her as he said this, and it occurred to Lisa that this was the first time their eyes had actually met during this entire conversation, perhaps the first time today. This entire week. She couldn’t decide which of his eyes to look at. God, they were out of sync. Things had gotten worse and worse between them over the past few years, and now they were worse than bad—they were complicated. Inscrutable. She looked away, and he looked back at his laptop.

Lisa went to the refrigerator, deciding that she really didn’t give two hoots about this vacation anymore, didn’t even care if she was invited, when over her shoulder Scott said, “Oh, hell with it. Run it by Poppy, then.”

Lisa closed the refrigerator and spun to face him, carton of cranberry juice in hand. “Really?” she said. She felt something hopeful spike within her chest.

Scott, staring at his laptop once again, seemingly uninterested in further talk of vacation, looked suddenly enthused by something completely unrelated.

She said, “Scott?”

He looked up, his eyes wide but unfocused on her, empty as poached eggs. “Huh?” he said.

“Did you say I can invite them?”

“Oh,” Scott looked back down at his computer. “Whatever makes you happy.”

2

AS THE FORDS waited in a long line of cars to cross the bridge onto Fripp Island, Poppy observed others coming and going from the island in their BMWs, Suburbans, and Audis. She and John and the kids were in their ’81 Dodge Omni with rusted-out wheel wells, and the car released a supersonic squeal from below the hood every time they made a sharp left turn.

Poppy pulled down the passenger’s visor to look at herself in its tiny, smeared mirror. Her shoulder-length black hair seemed to double in size in the humidity of coastal South Carolina. Her face was deeply tanned from long days in the sun. She worked for an entertainment company based out of Wheeling that provided bounce houses, inflatable pools, photo booths, and other props and costumed characters for special events. Poppy managed the delivery, assembly, and teardown of the bounce houses, dealt with damaged equipment, and handled all the waivers and consent forms. In the off-season, she helped contract out Grim Reapers, Santa Clauses, princesses, and Big Birds. Occasionally, she had to suit up and play Mrs. Claus or Jasmine if somebody called in sick at the last minute. It was ridiculous work, and she had to deal with more than her fair share of brats and meth-addicted freelance clowns, but it beat waiting tables, which is what she had done from the time she was fifteen until she was almost thirty.

In the mirror, Poppy poked at her symmetrical acne scars, which could almost be mistaken for dimples at this stage of life. Her dark eyes were bloodshot; they had left Wheeling at four a.m. and she was low on sleep, even though John had done a lot of the driving. Her nose looked greasy, so she took a napkin from the glove compartment and rubbed it.