I crouched beside her and gestured toward Glen.
“Daddy is over there.”
He waved the grilling tongs.
Ariel looked at him, then back at Clara. Her expression collapsed.
“No. Daddy’s in there.”
She started crying.
Not the dramatic crying she used when refused another cookie.
This cry was frightened and real.
Ariel seized my wrist and dragged me toward the pool.
Clara climbed from the water and reached for a towel.
“Oh, Helen, honestly. She’s three!”
Ariel pulled harder.
“No, Mommy! I’m not lying. Look.”
I followed the direction of her finger.
At first, I saw only Clara’s smooth swimsuit fabric, cut sharply across her waist, exposing pale skin underneath.
Then Clara moved.
Beneath the high curve of the cut-out, a faded line of dark ink appeared along her ribs.
It was an old tattoo.
A lighthouse.
The ink had faded into blue-gray. Fine lines shaped a narrow tower surrounded by curling waves.
