Claire blinked, thrown. “I was only telling him to be careful,” she said, keeping her tone level. “He asked to borrow my bucket, and I let him. That’s all.” The mother’s lips pressed into a thin line. “If you’ve got a problem, you talk to me, not him,” she snapped, her sunglasses reflecting the glare of the sun back at Claire like a shield.
Around them, the air shifted. Conversations quieted. Claire could feel the eyes again; some curious, some pitying, a few with that barely disguised oh, here we go look. The teenagers from earlier sat up straighter to watch, and a couple two towels over exchanged glances like spectators settling in for the next round.