“Who drives a white Acura?” asked Parker, whom we all agreed was very hot, especially when he pulled the top of his wet suit down during the breaks between sessions, showcasing his phenomenal abs.

“I do,” said the new woman. Some of us had forgotten her name already. Terri, was it? Mary? No, Sherri. It was Sherri. With an i. Some of us remembered that she’d told us that right away, as though anticipating an incorrect spelling.

“Rebecca does,” said Monica, a split second later. Rebecca, who was still down at the water’s edge, had been distracted all morning. Nicole had seen her on her cell phone, having what she described as a “very animated” conversation.

“Did you park in the metered lot?” Parker wanted to know. We all heard Sherri say that she wasn’t in the metered lot, she was in the overflow. She hadn’t known to get here early. Rebecca, of course, had known. First spot closest to the bathroom.

“I’m sure Rebecca got a meter,” Monica told Parker.

“I think she got backed into,” said Parker. “Chloe said she saw someone leaving a note.”

“I’ll tell her,” said Dawn, smiling openly at Parker.

The kids started to come out of the water for their snack break, pulling their surfboards behind them. Rebecca’s daughter, Morgan, tripped over her board’s leash and landed in the sand, not quite facedown, but close enough. Rebecca wasn’t looking—she was on the phone, still or again—and the rest of us pretended not to see. Although, really, wasn’t Morgan Coleman’s awkward stage lasting quite a long time? Of course we didn’t blame her! After what had happened.

When camp was over, many of us stayed at the beach for the afternoon. We’d packed lunch and planned to remain for the day. But not Rebecca, and not the new woman, Sherri, who folded her towel into her mesh bag while her daughter peeled off her wet suit. We supposed we weren’t surprised to see Rebecca leave. She hadn’t been the same since Peter. Last summer we hardly saw her at all.

We assessed the new girl. Her hair was dark and thick, pretty, even in its wet braid. We could see how it was probably curly when loose. Her skin was promising: clear, with the golden glow that spoke of an easy tan. Bathing suit: Target, last year’s model. The shorts she was pulling on over the suit were Old Navy, ill-fitting. And yet we all noticed that she had sort of an ease about her. A way of fitting into her environment.

“Well,” said the new woman, “it was so nice to meet all of you.”

“Likewise,” said Tammy. She cast a meaningful look at Gina. We didn’t have to say it out loud. We knew this woman wouldn’t try to get into the group. After the Chicago debacle our group had been restored to its natural order, an even dozen, and the borders had snapped themselves closed, like the lobes of a Venus flytrap.