Later we would remember that we first set eyes on Sherri Griffin on Sawyer’s Beach, on the first day of the first session of surf camp. From the beginning, we weren’t sure she fit in. In fact, we weren’t even sure how she got in: surf-camp sign-ups happened in April, and she said she and her daughter had only just moved here. Somebody had to have clued her in before she moved. Or a child had dropped out, leaving a space open, and this newcomer had snapped it up. Perhaps she was savvier than she looked.
We remembered that she asked about the best place to get a haircut for her daughter, whose hair was curly.
“Rebecca would know,” Tammy said. “She has a wave in her hair.” She indicated the woman standing at the shoreline.
“Rebecca knows everything about the town,” Esther added slyly, and purposefully. “And she’s a planner.”
“Oh yes,” Monica added. “She’s very organized.” It was true. Rebecca decided when we would take our annual trip to Nantucket, where and when we would eat when we got there, and, most important, who would go. It was Rebecca who coordinated the carefully curated shots of us in our white jeans. It was Rebecca who tastefully filtered the photos and posted them on Instagram and Facebook, tagging each of us so that for any outsiders perusing their feeds there would be no doubt about who was there.
And, of course, who wasn’t.
Well, that was the old Rebecca.
There were twelve of us, an even dozen. Occasionally we made an exception to allow for more. For example, for Brandy’s fortieth, three years ago, we included two of her book club friends on the weekend trip to Chicago, bringing the total number to fourteen.
Fourteen, we all agreed later, was too many. There was the thing with the spiked seltzers, to cite an example. One of the interlopers drank five (!) White Claws without offering to replenish when we Ubered to the liquor store. The other got very drunk during Brandy’s birthday dinner out, at Twain, and was later sick at the Airbnb we had rented in Lincoln Park. We all agreed this made everybody uncomfortable and was not to be repeated.
After, some of us remembered the pertinent facts we’d learned about Sherri that first day at the beach. Divorced. Recently moved from Ohio. An eleven-year-old daughter, who would be entering sixth grade at the middle school.
Upon hearing this news, we tried our best to appear inclusive.
“All of us have sixth graders,” said Dawn. “So you’ll be seeing a lot of us, come fall!”
“It all depends on what team she gets,” offered Monica.
“True,” said Dawn.
“Teams?” said Sherri. “Like, sports teams?” She was sitting on a striped beach towel; we remembered that she seemed woefully unprepared, having brought only a small mesh beach bag. The rest of us had our Tommy Bahama beach chairs slung low in the sand, Hydroflasks in the cup holders. This woman had no water bottle that anyone could see. No Yeti full of cold brew. Certainly no snacks to share.
Though, of course, in her defense, one of us said later, how could she have known to bring snacks to share?
Gina shook her head indulgently. “No, it’s the teams for the middle school. Gold and crimson. She’ll be on one or the other, and that will determine everything for the year.”
“Everything,” confirmed Monica.
We could see that we were making the newcomer nervous (and many of us were okay with that). We were all relieved when one of our favorite surf instructors, Parker, approached the group.
“Who drives a white Acura?” asked Parker, whom we all agreed was very hot, especially when he pulled the top of his wet suit down during the breaks between sessions, showcasing his phenomenal abs.
“I do,” said the new woman. Some of us had forgotten her name already. Terri, was it? Mary? No, Sherri. It was Sherri. With an i. Some of us remembered that she’d told us that right away, as though anticipating an incorrect spelling.
“Rebecca does,” said Monica, a split second later. Rebecca, who was still down at the water’s edge, had been distracted all morning. Nicole had seen her on her cell phone, having what she described as a “very animated” conversation.
“Did you park in the metered lot?” Parker wanted to know. We all heard Sherri say that she wasn’t in the metered lot, she was in the overflow. She hadn’t known to get here early. Rebecca, of course, had known. First spot closest to the bathroom.
“I’m sure Rebecca got a meter,” Monica told Parker.
“I think she got backed into,” said Parker. “Chloe said she saw someone leaving a note.”
“I’ll tell her,” said Dawn, smiling openly at Parker.
The kids started to come out of the water for their snack break, pulling their surfboards behind them. Rebecca’s daughter, Morgan, tripped over her board’s leash and landed in the sand, not quite facedown, but close enough. Rebecca wasn’t looking—she was on the phone, still or again—and the rest of us pretended not to see. Although, really, wasn’t Morgan Coleman’s awkward stage lasting quite a long time? Of course we didn’t blame her! After what had happened.
When camp was over, many of us stayed at the beach for the afternoon. We’d packed lunch and planned to remain for the day. But not Rebecca, and not the new woman, Sherri, who folded her towel into her mesh bag while her daughter peeled off her wet suit. We supposed we weren’t surprised to see Rebecca leave. She hadn’t been the same since Peter. Last summer we hardly saw her at all.
We assessed the new girl. Her hair was dark and thick, pretty, even in its wet braid. We could see how it was probably curly when loose. Her skin was promising: clear, with the golden glow that spoke of an easy tan. Bathing suit: Target, last year’s model. The shorts she was pulling on over the suit were Old Navy, ill-fitting. And yet we all noticed that she had sort of an ease about her. A way of fitting into her environment.
“Well,” said the new woman, “it was so nice to meet all of you.”
“Likewise,” said Tammy. She cast a meaningful look at Gina. We didn’t have to say it out loud. We knew this woman wouldn’t try to get into the group. After the Chicago debacle our group had been restored to its natural order, an even dozen, and the borders had snapped themselves closed, like the lobes of a Venus flytrap.