IT WAS OUR first day at the beach, one of the first without our daughters, who were busy with their own adult lives. So I only lugged my own beach chair and bag, not the supplies the girls could never help bring from the car because they were on their cellphones.
The day was gorgeous. The water was perfect for swimming and surfing, the ideal backdrop for a man with no intention of doing either. I was there to sit under a large umbrella, my body glistening with a thick layer of sunscreen for the rare moments when I trudged to the restroom. My only goal: Read a trash novel I would never in good conscience allow in the home. (“Jake Stryker was the best investigator in the FBI. But now, he was the hunted one.”) I sat in a boneless slouch, at one with my canvas chair, a disturbing, vaguely human form.
My blissful reverie was interrupted by a familiar voice next to me.
She: You have a shelf.
Me: What?
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