Mattie, in a Red Sox jacket, runs ahead to look for crabs. The beach is flat and shallow, curved like a shell, the sand the color of weathered wood with a calligraphy of seaweed written along its crust. Behind the seawall are the summer houses, empty now. Too late, Kathryn realizes she should have told Mattie, only five, to take off her shoes. Jack’s shoulders are hunched against the cold. He wears his leather jacket always, even on the coldest of days, unwilling to invest in a parka, or perhaps too vain, she has never been exactly sure. Her own flannel shirt hangs below her jacket, and she has a woolen scarf doubled around her neck. — What’s wrong? she asks. — Nothing, he says. — I’m fine. — You seem subdued. — I’m OK. He walks with his hands in his pockets, staring straight ahead. His mouth is set in a hard line. She wonders what has happened to upset him.
