Free That Old Cape Magic by Richard Russo

taught at their school. The cottages were all individually owned, looked after in the off-season by a local caretaker, but most were rented for at least a month or two in the summer, and there was always a nice mix of people.
“You must be teachers, too,” Mr. Browning said, indicating the institutional decal on the rear window of the Griffins’ car.
“University professors, actually,” his mother said, clearly anxious to set them straight on this score.
Mrs. Browning, a tall, beautiful, olive-skinned woman, touched her husband’s elbow then, saying they were heading to the beach, and since their boys were about the same age, would Griffin like to come?
“Go on,” his parents said in unison.
That was the beginning. By the end of the day he and Peter Browning had become fast friends. Every morning, when his parents were reading the newspaper (his father drove into town early to pick it up, along with fresh pastries, though he kept forgetting he was supposed to get a box of Griffin’s favorite cereal, too) and having breakfast with Al Fresco, they’d hear the Brownings’ screen door creak open on its unoiled hinge and Peter would shout across the playground, “Can you come over?”
“Have fun,” his parents said, by which they meant, Leave us in peace .
Except, wait, that wasn’t true, at least not at the beginning. On their second day, when Griffin was again invited, midmorning, to go to the beach, his mother had said no, that he should stay with them. They’d be going to the beach themselves, right after lunch. So off the Brownings had trudged, a big cooler swinging between the adults, the little girl (why couldn’t he remember her name?) skipping on ahead, Peter shouldering a big mesh laundry bag full of towels and colorful beach toys and looking devastated as he waved goodbye. When Griffin wanted to know why he hadn’t been allowed to go along, his mother explained that people like that always wanted something in return for kindnesses, and she had no intention of playing that game.
Two interminable hours later, Griffin and his parents, not nearly so well provisioned, emerged from among the dunes, and he glimpsed the Brownings a hundred yards down the beach to the left. “Go right, go right, go right,” his father said, nudging him forcefully in the other direction and pretending not to notice the entire family standing up and waving. “They teach junior high,” his mother explained when Griffin asked why they weren’t being more friendly. “Do you know what that means?” He didn’t, but understood he was supposed to. Was it that people who taught, say, kindergarten didn’t associate with people who taught seventh grade, who didn’t socialize with people who taught high school, who didn’t mix with college professors? It had to be something like that, he decided.
Fortunately, though he had no idea why, his parents changed their minds about the Brownings wanting something, and the next day he was allowed, indeed encouraged, to go with them while his parents finished breakfast with Al. They never budged until after lunch (they hated eating on the beach, and his father’s pale skin was susceptible to sunburn), by which time most families with bratty kids were packing up, and they’d have a long stretch of sand to themselves. Without Griffin to nag them, they usually emerged from among the dunes midafternoon with their towels and books and a couple folding beach chairs and not much else. The Brownings typically set up camp to the left, which meant that his parents headed to the right. That embarrassed him, especially the day the Brownings (intentionally?) changed things up by making their camp right where his parents usually sat, so when they arrived at their usual time they took a couple of steps toward them before noticing, then quickly reversed course. Griffin saw the look that passed between Peter’s parents and felt himself glow hot with shame.
“Aren’t they tired of you yet?” his mother asked over breakfast one morning