No one could say with any certainty who had suggested the game of croquet, but everyone had their suspicions. The resort staff set up the wickets right on the beach and rolled out a cart filled with neon-colored mallets. Only the mother and son stilled played on.
"It's just stupid to play in full sun on a beach. I'm going to the bar," the father said.
"It's only 3 in the afternoon," the mother said.
"It's cocktail hour somewhere in the world," he replied, not looking back.
The son snickered softly, but regretted it when he saw his mother's face; she looked tired and sad in equal measures. He wanted to join his father at the bar, knowing that his father would quickly gather a crowd and buy rounds of Corona and tequila shots for his new best friends. It was easier with him. You only had to drink and laugh appreciatively.
"Your shot," his mother said brightly, shielding her eyes from the afternoon sun and trying to muster a smile.
"Looks like a real squeaker," he said, trying to match her pleasant tone and hoping she wouldn't start crying, "I'm going to try to catch you on this one though. Can't have my mom show me up."
She smiled at him and he knew she understood he was trying to comfort her.
"You can head up to the bar if you want to, sweetheart," she said. "Really. I don't mind."
"You're just trying to get a win off me. Let's finish this game, lady. I'm not going to let you win just because you raised me," he answered, giving the ball a solid whack with the mallet.
The ball did not move forward; his swing had pushed it even deeper into the sand.
"I win," she said sweetly. "Let the winner buy you a beer."
