Outside the museum, below the city, the ocean was enormous and blue. The day smelled like jasmine and summertime. Sylvia put her hands on Charles’s and Lawrence’s shoulders, and said, “This’ll do.” Up a hill and around a corner were Miró’s studios. They crunched along the gravel and peeked inside his rooms, set up as though he would be home any moment. Easels held canvases, and half-used, rolled-up tubes of paint sat uncapped on his tables. Charles loved visiting other painters’ studios. In New York, the younger artists moved farther and farther out in Brooklyn, to Bushwick and corners of Greenpoint that nearly kissed Queens. His own studio was neat and white except for the floors, which were spotted with so many years of accidental drips. In Provincetown, he worked on the sunporch, or in a small, bright room that had once been an attic. Had Miró had any children? Charles leafed through the small pamphlet they’d been given at the door, but it didn’t say. Lots of artists had children, but they also had wives, or partners, someone to stay home. Why hadn’t they talked about that? Lawrence could take some time off, of course, a few months, but then wouldn’t he go back to work? Who was going to watch the baby? Charles wished that the social worker had sent a photograph, but they didn’t do that—as they’d explained in the meetings, it’s just like when people have a baby biologically. You see the child when it’s put into your arms.

Lawrence tilted his head and walked around to the room on the other side of the studio, so respectful of this man’s sacred space. Charles loved that about his husband, his willingness to see what other people couldn’t, that art was both mining and magic, a trade and a séance at once. It hadn’t been easy to convince Lawrence to come—two whole weeks with the Posts was not everyone’s idea of a vacation. Charles reached over and petted Lawrence’s head. They never had time like this in New York, when Lawrence was always running to the office. When they were in Provincetown, Charles would walk over to the bakery to get them breakfast, or would be in his studio while Lawrence slept in. It felt luxurious, the two of them just wandering through a museum on a weekday. Sylvia walked back out onto the gravel lookout, leaving them alone. Maybe it would have been easier to imagine if the child—Alphonse, his name was Alphonse—was a girl.

“Hello, there,” Lawrence said, circling back toward Charles. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned his head down so that it rested on Charles’s shoulder. It wasn’t comfortable—Lawrence was three inches taller—but it was good for a moment.

“I was just thinking about how nice it will be to go home,” Charles said.

“What have you done with my husband?” Lawrence said, laughing.

“What?” Charles pinched him in the side, sending him scooting a few inches away. “You act like I’ve been ignoring you.”

Lawrence groaned. “Of course you’ve been ignoring me.”

Charles poked his head outside, checking on Sylvia, who was lying prone on a bench, ignoring the other tourists, who were all taking photographs of the view. “Honey, no.”

“Honey, yes.” Lawrence stayed put. He recrossed his arms.

“Lawr, come on. How have I been ignoring you? We’re with half a dozen other people. What am I supposed to do, pretend I don’t hear or see them?”

“No,” Lawrence said, walking slowly back to Charles’s side. A German couple tromped in, and they lowered their voices. “I’m not asking you to be rude. I’m just asking you to be slightly less of a bloodhound, always three inches behind Franny’s ass.”

“Your ass is the only one I want to be three inches behind.”

“Don’t try being nice to me now, I’m mad at you.”

Charles had often thought that if they’d had the wherewithal or the money to actually produce a biological child, a boy or a girl made with Lawrence’s sperm, he wouldn’t feel remotely conflicted. How could he not love anything that had a face like that?

“I’m sorry,” Charles said. “I’m sorry. I know I get distracted when I’m around her. You are more important to me, I promise you.” This was not the first time they’d had this conversation, but it always surprised Charles. Luckily, he knew what Lawrence needed to hear. Whether he believed him or not was another story. Sometimes he did, and sometimes he didn’t. So much depended on Lawrence’s mood, on the hour of the day, on whether their most recent sex had been good or merely passable.

Lawrence closed his eyes, having heard what he’d needed to hear. “Fine. I think we’re both just anxious, you know? This is it, don’t you think? Can’t you just feel it?” He shivered, and then Charles did, too, as if an icy breeze had somehow made its way through the studio.

“Of course,” Charles said.

Franny hadn’t packed proper exercise clothes, but luckily her feet were the same size as Carmen’s, so she could borrow a pair of sneakers, and Carmen was so happy to lend them that it seemed like she might levitate. Fran wore leggings and a T-shirt she liked to sleep in, even though it had small, soft holes around the neckline. Her hair was too short to put into a ponytail, but she didn’t want it flying in her face (Franny imagined herself moving as quickly as a Williams sister, zooming from one corner of the court to another), so she’d also brought along the stretchy black headband she used when she washed her face.

Antoni Vert was standing behind the desk, just behind the receptionist. As in the photograph, he was wearing a baseball cap pulled low on his forehead, and a pair of reflective sunglasses hung on a neoprene cord around his neck. His face, though wider when she had seen it so often on a television screen, still looked to Franny like a Spanish movie star’s—the dimple in the chin, the black hair. She smiled and rushed toward the counter.

“Hello, Mr. Vert, Antoni, it is such a pleasure to meet you,” Franny said, holding out her right hand, the borrowed sneakers in her left.

Antoni swiveled at his hips and pointed at the wall clock. “You’re late.”

“Oh, am I?” Franny shook her head. “I’m so sorry. We’re still getting to know the island roads, I’m afraid.” Franny said this knowing full well that Mallorca had the most clearly marked highways she’d ever been on, gigantic signs with arrows and plenty of space. The royal we seemed to help her cause, as if she were blaming her lateness on some invisible chauffeur.

“We start now,” he said. “You need a racquet, yes?”

“Oh, shoot,” Franny said. Gemma had had a closet full of sporting equipment, of course. She was nothing if not healthy and industrious. There were probably cross-country skis hidden somewhere in the house, just in case the earth stopped spinning on its proper axis and the mountains were suddenly covered with powdery white snow. “It’s in the car!” She waved the sneakers at Antoni and then bolted out to the parking lot. “I’ll be right back!”

Franny laced up while Antoni waited, clearly irritated at the delay. What was three hundred euros a lesson? Franny chose not to do the math. It was a priceless experience she was giving herself, a gift that could not be bought at any other time or place. She double-knotted, trying to remember the last time she wore sneakers. Her best guess was sometime in 1995, when she was trying to get back into shape after Sylvia was born, doing Buns of Steel in the living room. “Ready.”

“Come,” Antoni said. He opened the door and waited for Franny to walk through it. She had to get so close to his body in order to pass, and she walked sideways, as slowly as possible, a happy little crab.

The courts seemed more crowded once she was on the other side of the fence. On television, they always looked so enormous, with these lithe young bodies scurrying around, but in reality a tennis court wasn’t very big. In fact, the courts were so close together that Franny worried she might hit balls into someone else’s game or, worse yet, into someone else’s face. Luckily, Antoni kept walking until they’d reached the final court in the row, which had a few courts’ cushion from their closest neighbors, a boy of about twelve and his coach.