“Shit!” Sarah crouched low, looking down to see if she could reach the mug from the deck. She discovered that she couldn’t, and, when she was getting back up, she bumped her head on the deck’s railing. “Shit!” she hissed again. Was this what things had come to? Was the house itself, once her favorite place in the world, now out to get her?
She pressed her hand against the top of her head, probing for any swelling, shaking coffee off first her left foot, then her right. She turned back to the house, meaning to rinse off her feet and try to find something—barbecue tongs?—that would let her retrieve the mug, and she almost missed what was happening below her on the beach. Namely, her husband, with his arm wrapped around the shoulders of an unfamiliar dark-haired woman.
Sarah jerked backward. Then she leaned forward, as far as she could, standing on her tiptoes as she bent over the railing, trying to see more. She realized that she was making a noise, a pained, wordless cry; and that she was gripping the railing hard enough to give herself splinters. It was Eli, absolutely Eli. Those had been Eli’s curls, coming out from the brim of his baseball cap; those were Eli’s familiar legs, pale and a little bowed beneath his blue swim trunks; that was Eli’s dark-blue Yankees T-shirt, the one that Sarah had washed and folded and put away a hundred times, and those were Eli’s goddamn plantar fasciitis flip-flops, two tiny black dots at the base of the beach stairs.
Sarah stood, with her head aching and coffee dripping off her ankles and her toes, watching as her husband wrapped his arms around the dark-haired woman’s waist and spun her around. When Eli bent his head to the other woman’s, Sarah took two giant, blundering steps backward, reeling like she’d been punched, until she felt the screen door against her back.
She got herself down to the outdoor shower and used the handheld attachment to clean her feet. She pulled off her robe and her nightgown and stood, letting the water pound down against her, eyes closed, hands fisted, mind full of roaring static; no words, only rage.
Without a towel, she’d been forced to put her robe back on. It clung unpleasantly to her wet skin as she hurried back to the bedroom. She made the bed where she and Eli had slept, grabbed her swimsuit and clothes from the dresser—a pair of loose, bleach-stained shorts and a T-shirt that had once been her dad’s that read I GOT SHUCKED AT THE WELLFLEET OYSTERFEST. She pulled the shirt and shorts on over her swimsuit, and went, barefoot, to the kitchen. Her mother was at the sink, rinsing breakfast dishes. Ari was at the table, talking to a dark-haired woman who introduced herself as Gabe’s aunt Amanda. “I’m the fun aunt!” she said with a bright smile. Sarah made herself smile back. She was trying to look normal, even as her entire body was thrumming with fury. How could Eli do this to her? （Never mind that Sarah herself had done the same thing to him.） How could he do it here, flaunting his indiscretions right under her nose? （Never mind that her old boyfriend was currently blowing up her phone, beseeching her to meet him less than five miles away.）
Platters of pastries, muffins, and croissants were set out on the kitchen counter. Sarah could smell bacon and eggs and could see a bowl of fruit salad. Eli had made it. She could recognize the way he cut his kiwis.
She excused herself, started down the stairs, and almost tripped over Lord Farquaad. “Oh, no you don’t,” she growled in a voice so low and scary that the dog, who was usually indifferent to Sarah’s commands, gave a small, frightened whimper and went waddling quickly away. She was furious. Furious and betrayed, and so angry that she felt ready to start hurling crockery at the walls. Except that wasn’t fair to Ruby. Ruby didn’t deserve drama or distractions, no matter what kind of an asshole her father had turned out to be.
From the floor below, she heard the screen door slide open, the outdoor shower turn on. It was probably her traitorous slimebag of a husband, come to rinse off the sand, and whatever else was clinging to him after his early-morning adventure. In her pocket, her phone started buzzing. Owen again. She read his text and returned the phone to her pocket without answering. She turned and called upstairs.
“Sarah! Good morning!” Ronnie said.
“Hey, Mom? If I go for a pond swim, are you okay keeping an eye on the boys? I think Eli went down to the beach.”
“No problem,” Ronnie called back. “It’s a perfect morning for a swim. In fact, if you wait a minute, I could—”
“No,” Sarah interrupted. She drew a deep breath. “I’m sorry, but if it’s okay, I think I could use a little alone time.”