I had spent years teaching Mason how a gentleman treated women. When Ryan refused to put sunscreen on my back but eagerly rubbed it onto his boss's shoulders, Mason watched in silence. I didn't realize he was already planning to teach his dad a lesson.
As a mother, I did everything I could to raise my son to be the kind of gentleman I remembered my father to be—a disappearing breed, as some would say. By the time Mason was six, he knew that the car door opened for his mother before it opened for him.
"That's my gentleman," I would say.
Ryan usually watched this performance from behind the steering wheel, drumming his fingers against it.
"You know the doors open from the inside, too, right? They've thought of everything."
Mason giggled, but he still waited until I was settled before closing the door. I wanted these gestures to become second nature.
At the grocery store, Mason carried the lightest bag. At restaurants, he held the door for whoever happened to be behind us. When we visited my mother, he offered to take her coat without being prompted.
One morning, when Mason hurried back for the last grocery bag while Ryan remained on the couch, I smiled at my son.
"That's my gentleman."
Ryan raised his head from the cushion. "Excellent. Wake me when your gentleman bootcamp teaches him to mow the lawn."
He wasn't cruel or entirely selfish. He simply regarded effort as a currency best spent when there was a visible return.
Which was why, when Ryan came home one evening and announced that he couldn't wait for Saturday's company picnic, I lowered the knife I was using to chop carrots and stared at him.
"The picnic on the beach?"
"That's the one." He opened the refrigerator and surveyed its contents. "It'll be fun. Sun, ocean, fresh air."
"You hate the beach."
I glanced at Mason, who was coloring at the kitchen table. He looked up, equally puzzled.
The previous summer, I had managed to drag Ryan to the beach exactly twice. During the first outing, the sand had been "getting into places sand had no business being." During the second, the sun was too bright, the gulls too loud, and the water "unnecessarily wet."
"I don't hate it."
"That sounds like something I might have said before developing a more positive outlook."
"You once said beaches were nature's way of making people pay to be uncomfortable."
"That sounds like something I might have said before developing a more positive outlook."
He took a small piece of cheese and tossed it into his mouth, leaning against the counter with studied casualness. Ryan believed he could lie convincingly when the stakes were high, but even minor deception made him look like a schoolboy hiding an F.
"What's her name?"
He nearly choked on the cheese. "Whose name?"
"The reason for your positive outlook."
"There is no reason." I waited. He sighed. "My new boss will be there."
"And she decides who gets the next promotion," I said.
"She has input." He brushed invisible crumbs from his shirt. "It wouldn't hurt for her to see that I'm sociable, energetic, good with people."
"Try not to complain that the sun is shining this time."
"I won't complain."
"Or that the sand is sandy."
"Claire."
Mason set down his green crayon. "Dad's going to do better this time, Mom."
His faith was so complete that Ryan's expression softened.
"You'll try, won't you, Dad?" Mason asked.
Ryan crossed the kitchen and held out his hand as though they were negotiating a serious contract. "I promise."
Mason shook it firmly. "A gentleman keeps his promises."
Ryan looked at me over our son's head. "Your boot camp is getting out of control."
By eight o'clock Saturday morning, I had made twelve sandwiches, sliced enough fruit to prevent scurvy in a small village, filled three water bottles, and located the beach towels Ryan had sworn were not in the linen closet. They were in the linen closet.
Mason sat on the kitchen floor beside an open canvas bag, fitting his plastic bucket, shovel, and collection of mismatched sand molds together with the concentration of a man packing for an expedition.
"Mom, do we need the soccer ball?"
"Probably."
"And my paddleball?"
"Maybe."
He considered the bulging bag. "What about Mr. Shark?"
I looked at the inflatable shark tucked under his arm. "Mr. Shark stays home."
From upstairs came Ryan's voice. "Claire, have you seen my blue T-shirt?"
"Which blue T-shirt?"
"The good one."
I closed my eyes. "That narrows it down."
He appeared ten minutes later in navy.
"What do you think?" he asked.
"The shirt, Claire."
"It's very blue."
His mouth tightened thoughtfully. "Maybe the gray one looks better."
While he went upstairs to change for the third time, Mason rescued the sandwiches and carried them to the car. Together, we wrestled the cooler off the counter and shuffled toward the door, each gripping one handle.
"I've got it," he said, though his face had turned pink with effort.
The cooler knocked against my knee with every step.
By the time Ryan emerged in the first shirt, we had loaded everything into the trunk.
The company had reserved a stretch of beach beyond the public parking lot. Ryan started out carrying the folded picnic blanket.
After fifty yards, he tucked the blanket under my arm because he needed a free hand to check a message.
Ahead of us, Ryan moved with remarkable speed.
"Come on, Claire," he called, walking backward for several steps. "Everyone's already here."
I stared at him. The previous summer, on this same beach, he had stopped twice between the parking lot and the water, complaining that walking on sand required "twice the energy for half the distance." Now he crossed it like a man approaching an oasis.
Mason noticed me struggling and tucked the ball beneath his chin.
"I can take the blanket, Mom."
Before I could answer, he pulled it carefully from under my arm and draped it over his shoulder. It dragged behind him, collecting sand.
"Your father seems eager," I murmured.
Mason smiled, adjusting the blanket. "He promised he'd do better."
Ryan's determination lasted until we reached the picnic tables.
By then, his navy shirt was clinging to his back, and the energetic stride that had carried him across the beach had deteriorated into a weary shuffle.
"Whose idea was it to put the tables this far from the parking lot?" he muttered. "And why is there no shade?"
I let the cooler drop beside an empty chair. "Careful. That almost sounded like complaining."
"I'm making an observation."
"Is the sand still too sandy?"
He gave me a look, but Mason beamed at him as he deposited his bucket beside mine.
"Dad did much better this time," he said.
Ryan managed a thin smile. "Thank you, buddy. At least someone appreciates the effort."
By the time I finally sat down, I was sweaty and exhausted. Mason ran toward the water, and I pulled off my cover-up to apply sunscreen. Ryan had collapsed beneath the umbrella with one forearm draped over his eyes.
"Ryan, could you get my back? I can't reach the middle."
He barely looked at me.
"Seriously? I feel awful in this heat. My head's pounding."
"But it'll take ten seconds."
He sighed dramatically. "Claire, I said I don't feel well. I need to get in the water and cool down."
Then Lauren arrived.