“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.” She pulled her left leg back and straightened out the right one. “Tension much?”

Bobby rolled over onto his stomach. “They’re always like this.”

“My ass.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, were we talking about your ass? Because I am way more interested in that conversation.” Bobby lifted his head and raised his eyebrows.

Carmen walked over and sat down next to Bobby, both of their bodies too big for the narrow lounge chair. “I’m serious. Are your parents okay? They seem so, I don’t know, touchy.”

“They’re fine. They’re always like that. I don’t know. It’s a transition, you know? My dad just retired. Can you imagine retiring? That’s like saying, ‘Okay, world, I am officially too old to be of any use. Put me on the ice floe, or whatever.’”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know, like Eskimos? Anyway. I’m sure that’s all it is.” Bobby shifted onto his side, to make more room, and Carmen lay down in the space, curling her dry, warm body next to his wet one.

“Why did he retire, then, if you don’t think he wants to feel like an Eskimo, or whatever?” Bobby put his wet hands around Carmen’s waist and pulled her close. She smelled the tiniest bit like sweat, which he’d always found sexy.

“I have no idea,” Bobby said, “but I’d really rather talk about something else. Like getting you out of these pants.” He slid one wet hand into the waistband of her Lycra shorts.

Carmen squirmed away from him, pretending to be disgusted. She stood up and shook herself off, ridding herself of imaginary cooties before slowly peeling off all of her clothes. “We should go on vacation more often,” she said, and jumped into the pool. Bobby was hard before he could follow her, and tripped over his bathing suit as he followed her in with a great big splash.

After Joan was dropped off at home and the rest of the group was fetched, everyone set out for dinner in Palma proper. Joan had recommended a tapas restaurant, and Franny had taken copious notes about what to order. This was her area of expertise, her chief joy in life, figuring out what to put in her mouth next, and when. It was out of the question to go before nine, but Bobby was starving to death and Sylvia was moping, so Franny rounded up the troops and loaded the cars and barked directions to the city.

The plan was to walk around town before dinner, which seemed to be everyone else’s plan as well. They parked the cars on a narrow street by the cathedral, a massive gray pile just off the beach. After a few days in Pigpen, Palma felt like being at home—the city was lively, the streets filled with couples and families and dogs, everyone strolling slowly and drinking at small tables outside. Bobby and Carmen walked ahead, holding hands.

“Look,” Franny said to Jim, who shrugged. “Maybe it’s love after all?”

“She’s fine,” Jim said. “She doesn’t bother me.”

Franny glared at him. “You’re a bad liar.” She had liked this about him for most of their marriage, but now, as she said it aloud, it occurred to Franny that this was a flaw.

The cobblestone streets were pitched, heading up- and downhill. There was a little shop selling Mallorcan pearls, and Franny ducked in, Charles and Lawrence trailing behind her. She bought two strands, both blue and satisfyingly lumpy, and strung one around her own neck and one around Sylvia’s.

“Mom,” Sylvia said, fingering her new necklace, “I think my stomach is actually going to eat itself. Like, my stomach is going to think that the rest of my body is trying to kill it and it will attack the rest of my organs like parasites. And then I’ll be dead in an hour.”

“You’re welcome,” Franny said, and hooked her elbow in Sylvia’s. “Let’s follow the lovebirds.”

“Oh, please,” Sylvia said. She looked over her shoulder to make sure no one else was close enough to hear. The pedestrian-only streets were filled with well-dressed people of all ages—dapper white-haired gents in thin sweaters and loafers, rambunctious teenagers licking each other’s necks. They made it a block before they hit Bobby standing by himself in front of a clothing store.

“Ditched her?” Sylvia said.

“She’s in there,” he said. The store was blasting dubstep so loudly that they had to raise their voices to be heard. “I couldn’t take it.”

The mannequins in the window were wearing asymmetrical dresses printed with three different patterns, clothing that Frankenstein might have sewn.

“Barf,” Sylvia said. “This is clothing for blind strippers.”

“Well, she likes it, Sylvia, okay?” Bobby crossed his arms.

“You know, I’m going to go in and check on her,” Franny said. “It’s no fun to shop alone.”

Charles and Lawrence were trailing behind, and Sylvia watched as they walked in and out of a sunglasses store, a shoe store, a candy store. They did everything together. She wondered if her parents had ever been like that, even before Bobby was born. It seemed unlikely.

“Where’s Dad?”

“I don’t know,” Bobby said. “Didn’t say anything to me.”

“Are you okay?”

“What do you mean? Of course I’m okay.” Bobby’s hair was getting long, and the dark curls hung to his eyebrows.

“Jeez, nevermind.” Sylvia peered into the dark hole of the clothing store that had just eaten her mother.

The store was dense with racks of skimpy, sweatshop-manufactured clothing. Franny walked through, touching things as she went, recoiling from all the shiny, stretchy fabrics. She finally found Carmen in the back, near the dressing rooms, with a pile of stuff over her arm.

“Can I help?” Franny said, putting out her hands. “Here, let me hold all that while you look.”

Carmen shrugged and offloaded the stack into Franny’s waiting arms.

“You and Bobby have fun today? We missed you at the Graves House, it really was something. I think secretly every writer imagines their house becoming a museum. Or having a plaque, at the very least. So many plaques.”

Carmen gave a half-smile and continued to paw through a rack of sequined tops. “Oh, you know, museums aren’t really my thing.”

“Well, it’s not really a museum, it’s just a house. Where a writer lived. So it’s more about snooping around than looking at art.”

“I don’t read that much.”

Franny smiled with her lips closed, a tight line. This was a grown woman, she reminded herself, a person who supported herself and made her own decisions. This was not her family. This was not her problem. “Mm-hmm.”

“Oh, you know, I did just read a really good book, though, on the plane,” Carmen said, pausing with her hand on the hanger of a spectacularly ugly dress. Franny’s heart leapt, even as she was trying to convince it to temper its expectations. “It’s called Your Food, Your Body. I think you’d really like it, actually.”

“Oh, yeah?” Franny said. It could be sociology, she thought, or anthropology, a study of cultural norms through their natural dishes, an investigation of stereotypes through the meals our ancestors have given us. Franny loved books about food—maybe this was it, the moment she’d been waiting for, the moment that Carmen opened her mouth and proved that she’d been paying attention all along.

“It’s about what kind of diets work best for your body type—like, for example, I’m small and muscular, which means no complex carbs. My Cuban grandmother would murder me if she was still alive, no rice and beans!” Carmen opened her eyes wide. “It’s really interesting.”

“That does sound very informative,” Franny said. “You ready to try some things on?”

Carmen shrugged. “Sure.” She plucked a single dress out of Franny’s arms, made out of transparent plastic, like a garment made out of Saran wrap. “Isn’t this one cute?”

“Mm-hmm,” Franny said, unable to say more.