Lawrence chuckled, and Charles gave him a look. “What?” Lawrence said. “That was hot.”

Sylvia was glad to be near the door, and made a swift exit down the stairs, followed closely by her father.

They’d somehow missed the video presentation, a twenty-minute loop projected in a room as clean and bare as a Quaker meetinghouse, and so Jim and Sylvia went there, scooting in just after it began, joining another group of tourists. Franny wouldn’t follow them in for fear of being bored to tears, and Charles would rather rub his hands against the rosemary bushes and imagine his life on a craggy mountaintop than sit in a dark room, so they were safe for the moment. Sylvia sat next to her father, but far enough apart that their hips didn’t touch on the stark wooden benches.

The voiceover to the video (“I, Robert Graves”) seemed to be narrated posthumously, and Jim and Sylvia both laughed several times. Robert Graves came off like a hilarious eccentric egomaniac, with children riding donkeys down to the beach and an unstable mistress who had jumped out the window and survived. “This is better than reality TV, Syl,” Jim whispered, and she nodded, in full agreement. It truly was an advertisement for leaving the city life behind, for finding a parcel of perfection and staying there, no matter how remote. Jim and Franny had never thought about leaving New York, not seriously. She would travel for periods of time while on assignment, but Jim’s work couldn’t exist elsewhere. He wondered if that was something Franny resented him for, shackling her to Manhattan. It didn’t seem likely, but neither did the thought of Madison Vance.

She’d started the previous summer, just after her senior year at Columbia. The magazine had a solid internship program, with scores of bright young people doing menial tasks for no pay. They were at the copy machine, running back and forth to the supply closet, sorting the book room, taking detailed notes (for what reason, Jim was never sure) in meetings. The most promising interns were occasionally given things to do: fact-checking, research, reading the slush. In the fall, she’d been promoted to editorial assistant, a real job with benefits and a 401(k). Madison wore her long hair loose, and after she’d been in his office—this was well before anything happened—Jim would find strands of blond, like filaments of gold, stuck to his furniture.

It was embarrassing, how easily it had happened, how little effort he’d had to exert.

“Cool, huh?” Sylvia said.

“Yep,” Jim said, his eyes refocusing on the screen. Instead of watching still images of Robert Graves at work, Robert Graves with his family, Jim saw Madison Vance’s naked body. He’d been surprised the first time he’d reached his hand inside her skirt and felt her pussy, waxed and cool, as smooth as a hotel pillowcase. It was the kind of thing Franny would never have done on principle—she was full bush, always, and proud of it, like she was some kind of 1970s Playboy Playmate. Madison was the opposite, the slick result of youth raised on Internet porn. She’d groaned the second Jim slid his palm against her clit. When he was her age, he’d barely known what a clitoris was. He regretted so much of what happened, but there were moments that refused to leave his brain. Jim loved his wife, he loved his wife, he loved his wife. But it had been something, after so many years, to move his hand against someone new, not knowing how her body would respond, or how she would shift herself into his touch. He was sweating now, despite the air-conditioning. The film was long, and he was glad. The last thing he wanted was to look his daughter in the face.

Carmen didn’t like missing workouts. For her clients, hitting the gym twice a week was the absolute minimum. That was maintenance. You lost muscle tone with any more time away. Taking two weeks’ vacation was practically begging to return to sloppy squats and lots of panting. She’d tried to set her clients up with a substitute trainer while she was gone, but Carmen didn’t trust the other professionals at Total Body Power not to try to steal them permanently. Jodi was the second-best at the gym, a real killer, and she’d been circling for weeks, after seeing Carmen’s name crossed off the schedule. July in Miami was not a joke. Even though it was the off-season for Florida residents, the gym was busy with tourists who got passes from their hotels, and their bodies needed help more than most.

She was doing some circuit training by the pool. Push-ups, burpees, standing squat jumps, invisible jump rope. Bobby swam languid laps and occasionally called out words of advice.

“Atta girl. Explode!” Bobby was still learning the lingo.

They’d met at Total Body Power almost six years ago, when Bobby was two months out of college and still living off the Post credit card. He’d signed up for the premium package—twelve sessions with a trainer, twice a week, for six weeks. He told Carmen he was serious about getting into shape. He’d never been remotely sporty, and had no hand-eye coordination. Bobby’s long body had been like a wilting zucchini, the same thickness from top to bottom. Carmen knew just what to do. She’d put him on daily protein powder and had him lifting more weight every week. Bench presses, dead lifts, kettle-bell swings. Bobby did pull-ups and push-ups and jumping jacks. She knew all the machines, and slid the key into heavier and heavier slots. By the end of the six weeks, Bobby’s arms had nearly doubled in size, and his stomach, which had always been nearly concave, showed signs of an emerging six-pack. Carmen was an artist of the body, and she had made him from scratch.

They hadn’t slept together until the very end, that last week. Bobby was sorry that the sessions were coming to an end, and he knew that his father would object if he charged another thousand dollars at the gym. He asked Carmen out for a drink, not knowing if she poisoned her body in that way or any other. She said yes, and they met at the bar at the Del Mar hotel. Bobby had picked one of the less glitzy bars on the strip on purpose, not knowing how Carmen looked when she was out of her gym clothes, and not wanting her to feel uncomfortable, but he needn’t have worried. She arrived five minutes late wearing Lucite heels and a white dress that ended only a breath below her firm, round bottom.

“Zip it,” Carmen said, and started her squats. She pivoted her body so that she was facing away from the pool. She would be forty-one in a few months. Everyone at the gym said that forty was the new twenty-five, and they were right. She was thinking about running a marathon, or maybe doing a triathlon, or maybe both. The difference was in the muscle groups, and in the toning. To run, you needed solid hamstrings and quads, which were good for riding the bike, too, but once you got in the water, it was all about your back and your core. Carmen visualized herself in the water, a swim cap tight around her head. She imagined breaking the surface of water with each breath, drawing in exactly as much energy as she needed to take the next stroke. She would finish in the top of her age bracket, if not higher, that much she knew for sure. Lots of her clients at the gym were in their forties, bodies pouchy from childbirth or laziness. Carmen would never let herself be like that, soft and passive. She was strong.

Bobby hoisted himself out of the pool and lay down, dripping wet, on the recliner closest to Carmen. The sun was directly overhead, but he didn’t mind. His whole family pretended they were vampires or cancer victims, deathly afraid of a little vitamin D, but Bobby liked getting some color.

“So,” Carmen said, stretching out one calf and bending herself in half over it, her toes lifted toward the sky, “what’s up with your parents?”