“You’ll try, won’t you, Dad?”
And my husband walked across the kitchen and held out his hand to our six-year-old like they were closing on a house.
“I promise.”
Mason shook it hard, one firm pump, the way my father taught me to shake hands and the way I taught him.
“A gentleman keeps his promises.”
Ryan looked at me over the top of our son’s head.
“Your boot camp is getting completely out of control.”
Saturday, Eight in the Morning
By eight o’clock I had made twelve sandwiches, sliced enough fruit to prevent scurvy in a small village, filled three water bottles, packed two bags of chips and a container of cookies, and located the beach towels Ryan had sworn on his life were not in the linen closet.
They were in the linen closet.
Mason was sitting on the kitchen floor beside an open canvas tote, fitting together his plastic bucket and shovel and a collection of mismatched sand molds with the concentration of a man packing for the Arctic.
