The tapas bar Joan had recommended was in the tangle of small streets near the Plaça Major, which also had a Burger King and a pizza place, both of which were crowded with Spanish teenagers. There was a crowd spilling out of the restaurant, which made Sylvia fold in half like a toy with dead batteries. Determined, Franny wiggled her way through the packed bar to the hostess, and they were seated before long—Joan had made a phone call on their behalf. As he’d mentioned to Franny, his parents knew the owners. It was a small island, after all. “What a sweet boy!” Franny said over and over again, to no one in particular. “What a sweet, sweet boy.”

“Yeah,” Bobby said. “Too bad his name is Joan,” pronouncing it like an American, rhyming with groan, a woman’s name. His mother socked him in the arm.

“Joe-ahhhhhn. And you’re getting awfully muscly,” she said. It wasn’t a compliment.

Bobby and Charles began to order by pointing—an overflowing plate of blistered green peppers covered with wide flakes of salt, toasted pieces of bread with dollops of whipped cod, grilled octopus on a stick. Plates appeared and were passed around the table with great moans of pleasure. Franny looked at the menu and ordered more—albóndigas, little meatballs swimming in tomato sauce; patatas bravas, fried potatoes with a ribbon of cream run back and forth over the top; pa amb oli, the Mallorcan answer to Italy’s bruschetta.

“This does not suck,” Sylvia said, her mouth half full.

“Pass the meatballs,” Bobby said, reaching across her.

“Más rioja!” Charles said, raising his glass toward the center of the table, clinking glasses with no one, because everyone else was too busy eating. Franny and Jim sat next to each other on the far side of the table, the backs of their chairs wedged against the wall. Charles and Lawrence got up to go look at the tapas in the glass cases along the bar, and the children were occupied with the food still in front of them. A sizzling plate of steak landed on the table, and Bobby speared an enormous piece with his fork and then dangled it over his mouth like a caveman.

“So?” Franny said. Jim rested his arm on her chair, and she let it stay, just to see how it felt.

“I think it’s a success.” Jim’s face was only a few inches away, the closest it had been in what felt like months. He hadn’t shaved in a couple of days, and he looked the way he’d looked as a young man, blond and scruffy and handsome. Franny was caught off guard, and jerked her chair forward, knocking his arm away. Jim recovered quickly and knit his hands together on the table. “At least, I think so.”

“The kids are good,” Franny said. “Though I really don’t know about that girl.” Carmen had eaten only the peppers, which she complained were too oily.

“Have you seen her powders?”

“What does that mean?”

Jim smiled a very small smile and lowered his voice. “She has baggies full of powder, and she puts it in everything she eats. In water, in her yogurt. I think it might be Soylent Green.”

Franny surprised herself by laughing, and fell a few inches closer to Jim’s chest. “Stop,” she said. “I’m not ready to laugh with you.” She thought of the girl, younger than Bobby, her baby boy. Her jaw stiffened so quickly that she thought it might crack.

Jim raised his hands in surrender, and they both turned back to the far end of the table. Charles and Lawrence were on their way back, each carrying two plates of tiny, gorgeous bites.

“Get that over here,” Franny said, patting the empty table space in front of her. “I’m starving.”

Day Six

JIM DRANK HIS COFFEE BY THE POOL. IT WAS ALREADY warm outside, and the tall, narrow pine trees stood static against the backdrop of the mountains on the other side of the village. It had been almost a full week, and he was still tiptoeing around Franny, still breathing quietly, still doing whatever she said. If she had wanted him to sleep on the floor, he would have. If she wanted him to turn off the light when she was tired, he did. They had been married for thirty-five years and three months.

The first divorces happened quickly—a year or two into an ill-planned marriage, and they were done. The second wave happened a decade later, when the children were small and problematic. That was the one that the child psychologists and playground moms fretted about, the kind of divorce that caused the most damage. It was the third wave that Jim hadn’t seen coming—the empty-nester crises of faith. Couples like him and Franny were splitting up all over the Upper West Side, couples with grown children and several decades of life together behind them. It had to do with life expectancy, and with delayed midlife meltdowns. No one wanted to believe they were midlife when they hit forty anymore, and so now it was the sixty-year-olds buying the sports cars and seducing the younger women. At least that’s what Franny would have called it. Clear as day, a simple case. But of course nothing was ever simple when the lech in question was your own husband.

The back door clanged shut. Jim looked over his shoulder and was surprised to see Carmen heading over to join him. She was wearing her workout clothes, which she seemed to have in place of pajamas or blue jeans, whatever else one would wear casually around the house. Carmen always looked ready to drop to the ground and do fifty sit-ups, which Jim supposed was the point.

“Morning,” she said, setting her tall glass of green liquid down next to his mug on the concrete. “Mind if I join you?”

“Of course not,” Jim said. He tried to remember a moment when they had been alone together, but couldn’t. It was possible that they’d been left alone in a room while Bobby went to the bathroom, maybe, but even that seemed unlikely. He gestured to the chaise longue beside his, and she sat, knitting her fingers together and stretching her palms away. Her knuckles cracked loudly.

“Sorry,” she said. “Bad habit.”

They both took sips of their drinks and stared out at the mountains, which had taken on a bluish tint from the cloudless sky above.

“So,” Carmen said. “I’m sorry about what’s been going on with you and Franny.” She placed one hand flat over her glass. Jim wondered if it tasted like sawdust, or if it had the flavor of chemicals, a thousand vitamins ground to dirt. “It must be hard on both of you.”

Jim ran a quick hand over his hair, and then did it again. He pursed his lips, unsure of how to proceed. “Huh,” he finally said. “I’m sorry, did Fran talk to you?”

“She didn’t have to,” Carmen said, lowering her eyes. “The same thing happened with my parents. Bobby doesn’t know, but I can see it. Don’t worry, I won’t say anything to him.”

“Huh,” Jim said, still at a loss. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” she said, the words coming out faster now. “I mean, I was in high school, just a little bit younger than Sylvia, and it was really hard. My parents were going through this really tough time, but didn’t want us to know, but of course we knew, and my brothers and I were all in the middle of it, even though they thought we had no idea.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” His coffee was getting cold. Jim looked back toward the house, hopeful that someone else was stirring, but there was no sign of life.

“If you ever need to talk to anyone about it, you can talk to me,” Carmen said. She put her hand on Jim’s shoulder. “Just between us.”

“Thank you,” Jim said. He wasn’t sure what he was thanking her for, or what she knew. All Jim was sure of was that he wanted to be rescued by a small plane. They didn’t even have to stop, they could just swing by and lower a rope. He would climb up all on his own.