Was he crying behind those sunglasses? Was he pissed off? Was he wearing his wedding ring?

Scott unfurled his towel on the sand next to Poppy and took a seat there.

She cleared her throat, aiming for a cheery and casual greeting. “Hey,” she said. “How’s it goin’?”

Scott didn’t look at her, nor did he respond right away. He stared out at the ocean, then lowered himself and sat cross-legged on the towel as though about to embark on meditation. His hands were in his lap.

Finally, he murmured, “Fine.” He sounded like he had just fought a war.

Oh God. Poppy felt a jolt of sympathy spike through her. Was it over? Had Lisa announced that she was leaving him? If so, there was no reason to pity Scott, of course; after all, he had spent the past three hours in some other woman’s bed. But, oh God, was it really happening this way, this soon? Poppy rapid-fire swallowed several times to will her voice calm. She noted that he was wearing his wedding ring, but that meant nothing. They were probably going to put on their best face, wedding rings and niceties, at least for the rest of the vacation, for the girls’ sake.

She thought of Lisa, up at the house. She must be an absolute wreck, Poppy thought; she must be completely crushed and inconsolable. She must have sent Scott down here as the ambassador so as not to raise suspicions between Rae and Kimmy if both of their parents were absent for too long. Poor Lisa must really be in a state. Poppy wanted to check on her. She also wanted to tell Scott that he wasn’t doing a very good job of pretending things were normal, that if he didn’t buck up, Kimmy would take one look at him and immediately demand to know what was wrong. But she knew it wasn’t her place, and that it would be better if Scott didn’t know what she knew. She suspected that the entire charade could easily fall to pieces and all would be revealed if anything caused Scott’s emotional state to teeter and tip.

Beside her, Scott was removing his shirt. His skin sagged more than Poppy remembered. His nipples looked sunburned. His crucifix bounced against a tangle of black and gray chest hair.

Then he rose without a word, scooping himself up off the sand, and looked around for a moment before locating the largest shovel the kids had brought, its red plastic blade the size of a dinner plate. Scott took the shovel a few yards out, midway between Poppy and the water, and started to dig.

He dug like a professional, both arms, a good anchor at his core, pitching sand over his shoulder. As he dug deeper, the sand became darker. Soon his whole body was slick with sweat, his face deep red; he was baking out there in the direct sun. He paused from his digging only once, to stand back and assess his progress, then he used his shovel to scrape a perimeter into the surface, marking off the intended size and shape of the hole. Poppy was transfixed. Scott dug and dug, stepping into the now three-foot-deep hole to work it from a different angle, then stepping back out, up onto the beach, to expand it.