The werewolf movie had gone back for reshoots, which meant more work for Lawrence. He wasn’t surprised—it was the bad movies that needed the most coddling, from the actors to the producers to the location scouts. He stood with his back to the fridge, laptop in his arms. The director had had a last-minute change of heart about the ending (Christmas for all, werewolf love) and had instead shot a version in which Santa Claws had leapt to his death from the sleigh. Reshoots were necessary, and the remainder of the fake hair had already been returned. It was the sort of thing that would have taken him days even if they were at home, but from Mallorca, with the spotty Internet, Lawrence saw the rest of the vacation sliding from mediocre but tolerable to actually hellish. They should have just gone home when they got the e-mail, whatever the end result. Charles seemed to be slipping, too, purposefully avoiding conversations they’d spent the last year having incessantly, and Lawrence worried that he’d changed his mind.

Franny and Charles were sitting at the kitchen table, munching on pieces of fruit and reading magazines—Franny had finally come into possession of Sylvia’s airplane reading material, and was glued to an article. Charles had his sketchbook out and was drawing, but Lawrence doubted he was paying much attention, choosing instead to read over Franny’s shoulder. Franny was one of the earliest hurdles in their relationship—Charles’s parents were ancient and infirm, unlikely to put up a fight about his suitors, but Franny was vocal. Her opinion mattered. They’d gone to a dinner party at the Posts’, the table filled out by another couple (the Fluffers, Franny called them later—“Just pretty window dressing, so that you wouldn’t notice me taking notes”), whom they hadn’t seen since. The food was divine—Franny had cooked for days, and it showed, with dishes more elaborate than anything Lawrence had ever eaten except on holidays at his grandmother’s house. There was a salad with pieces of grapefruit in it, and asparagus wrapped in pancetta, and a rack of lamb with the kind of mustardy crust that Lawrence thought you could get only at a restaurant. She’d been friendly and warm, as Charles had said she would be, but there was no mistaking the glint in her eye. Franny was judging every word that came out of his mouth, the way he cut his meat, the way his hand searched out Charles’s thigh under the table. Not for anything funny, of course, just to squeeze, for reassurance.

Franny pointed to something on the left-hand side of the page, and Charles erupted into laughter. She leaned into his shoulder, an easy, comfortable motion she’d done thousands of times over almost forty years, since two years before she and Jim were married. Lawrence and Charles had been together for almost eleven. Even now that they were married, sometimes it felt like he could never catch up. Lawrence was just about to interrupt their cozy moment and ask what had been so funny when Bobby, looking significantly worse for wear, shambled into the kitchen.

“Good morning,” Franny said, sitting up straighter. “Do you want some breakfast?” She scooted out from behind the table and around to the fridge, where there were now three people crowding into a very small space.

“Sorry,” Lawrence said, “let me get out of the way.” He swung his laptop over his head, like a suitcase he didn’t want to soil after jumping overboard, and waded back to Charles.

Bobby opened the fridge and stood there, red-eyed and blurry. “There’s nothing to eat.”

Franny made a noise. “Don’t be ridiculous. What are you in the mood for? Want some pancakes? French toast?”

“That makes you fat,” Bobby said. “I need protein.”

Without bristling at his surly tone, she continued. “Eggs? Maybe some bacon and eggs?” Franny looked up to him for approval. Bobby’s eyelids hung at half-mast.

“Fine,” he said, but he didn’t move or close the door. Franny reached around him to grab what she needed from the refrigerator shelves. He stood still, a statue that smelled of dank armpits and a night of fitful sleep.

“I think Carmen’s already up and at ’em,” Charles said, nodding his chin toward the window. They all turned to look. She was alternating between jumping jacks and burpees, up down, up down, out in, up down, up down, out in. Bobby turned the slowest of all, and let out a thin wheeze of air when he saw her.

“She’s pissed,” he said. “She only does doubles when she’s pissed.”

“What’d you do, tiger?” Charles said, amused.

Bobby shrugged and dragged himself over to the table. Lawrence scooted over to make room, and Bobby collapsed into the nearest seat. “Nothing. God. Nothing.”

“Women.” Charles said, rolling his eyes, then quickly shrugging toward Franny. I don’t know, he mouthed.

“You know what they say about women . . .” Lawrence started, but the look on Bobby’s face made it clear that whatever joke he was about to tell wouldn’t be worth it. They all sat in silence, waiting for Bobby’s breakfast to be ready.

Carmen took a break and squatted down until her butt hit the ground, extending her legs out in a straddle position. If Bobby had asked her to go with him, she would have. If he came outside right then and told her that he loved her and kissed her on the cheek and apologized for interrupting her night’s sleep, she would have forgiven him. If he had waved out the kitchen window even, and smiled at her! Carmen folded over the space between her legs, resting her hands on the rough concrete. He didn’t understand anything at all.

A certain learning curve was to be expected—she was an adult when they met, and he was something else, half boy, half man. Maybe more than half boy, if she was being honest with herself. The first few years hadn’t even counted, not really. He was learning how to balance his checkbook, how to order wine at a restaurant, how to separate his lights from his darks. Bobby had been so sweet, gobbling up every piece of practical information. She was an oracle of the real world! Franny and Jim Post paid someone to clean their house, so no wonder Bobby was confused when his toilet bowl began to show signs of use. They paid someone else to do their taxes, so no wonder he didn’t know what he could deduct, which receipts to save.

And still, the Posts looked down at Carmen. She could feel it, she wasn’t stupid. Certainly not as stupid as they thought she was. She heard their muttered remarks, saw their rolling eyes. She had given up trying to impress them years ago, thinking that it was her newness, her eagerness, that got under their skin. Now she wasn’t sure that she’d ever had a chance. It was a strange feeling, to be someone else’s lightning rod, the glinting piece of metal in the storm. The scapegoat’s scapegoat. She saw how hard it was for Bobby to relax around his parents, and she wanted to help. But she couldn’t help if he didn’t let her.

Carmen rolled back up to a seated position and slid her head from side to side, stretching out her neck. He had five minutes to come outside and talk to her. She could see them all through the window, smiling and laughing. He had five minutes.

Jim wanted to spend the afternoon alone, so he drove one of the cars down the hill to Palma. The countryside was satisfying for only so long. Palma was big enough to get slightly lost in, with narrow streets and dead ends, just the way he liked. There were still some Moorish buildings, and some leftover evidence of the conquering hordes, and some interesting architecture tucked beside the chain restaurants. Let Franny plan the itineraries—Jim was happy to stroll with no destination in mind. He had a notebook in his pocket in case anything occurred to him, but the notebook had stayed in his pocket thus far.