“Your mother raised you like a baby manatee—she let you stay close for a year, tops, and then pushed you out into the ocean.”
“Is that what manatees do?”
“I don’t know, I think so. I read that on a tea bag, too.”
Franny opened her mouth and let it fill with water, which she then spat out, in Charles’s direction. The water felt like heaven. They would be cold when they got out, she knew, but it didn’t matter. She wasn’t ever going to leave the pool.
“We’re trying, you know.” Charles hoisted himself halfway out of the pool, his once muscular arms now a bit softer against his upper body.
“Trying what? Don’t talk to me about weird sex stuff, please. I haven’t gotten laid in a hundred years and it will make me hate you.” Franny rubbed the water out of her eyes. She was facing away from Charles and swiveled her body so that he was directly in front of her. The bottom of the pool was slightly pebbled, like a popcorn ceiling, and she drew her knees to her chest.
“No,” Charles said. He let himself fall back into the water with a splash. “We’re trying to get a baby.”
Franny wasn’t sure she’d heard him right. “Get a baby?”
Charles swam over and put his hands on Franny’s shoulders. She let her legs straighten out and put her hands on his hips, so they were both standing in the shallow end, in fifth-grade-dance pose.
“Get a baby. I mean, adopt a baby. We’re trying to adopt. It’s close. I mean, it could be. Someone picked us, and we said yes, and now we’re waiting.” Charles didn’t expect to be nervous telling her this, but then again, he supposed there was a reason he hadn’t brought it up until now. The process had been going on for a year! More than a year! And Charles had wavered from the beginning, he’d wavered until the day before, when he saw once again how patient Lawrence was, how loving, how forgiving. How could anyone want more than that in a parent, or a spouse?
Franny didn’t flinch. “My love,” she said, and closed the gap between them, pressing her wet body against his. She wanted to tell him that he would be a wonderful father, and that having her babies—that’s what they were to her still, her babies, no matter how old they got—was the best thing she’d ever done, no matter the stress and complications. She pulled back and saw that Charles’s eyes were wet, either with pool water or tears, she wasn’t sure, but it didn’t matter, because hers were, too. “Yes,” she said. “That is a wonderful, wonderful idea.”
Day Twelve
JOAN ARRIVED PROMPTLY AT ELEVEN AS USUAL, BUT instead of coming inside, he stepped back and held the door open for Sylvia to come out. She blinked in the bright sunlight and put on her sunglasses, a pair of Franny’s from the 1980s, giant ones that took up half her face and made her look like either a grandmother or a movie star, she wasn’t sure which. She’d had trouble deciding what to wear for their day out and about, and had finally chosen a short cotton dress with daisies on it. Joan then opened the car door for her and jogged around to the driver’s side. The car was so much bigger than the two rental cars that it felt like a Humvee, but it was probably just a regular-sized sedan. It smelled like Joan’s cologne, and she inhaled deeply, wanting to fill her nostrils. Sylvia tucked her hands under her thighs on the leather seat. It was already hot outside, and unless Joan immediately put on the air-conditioning, she was going to sweat and stick to the seat and there would be gross red marks when they got up, like she’d been attacked by a giant octopus who happened to live in his car. Sylvia smiled when Joan sat down, turned the key, and a great big blast of cold air shot out of the vents.
“So, where are we going?” Sylvia asked.
“It’s a surprise,” Joan said. “But don’t worry, I won’t make you wear a blindfold. You can swim, yes? You have a bathing suit?”
“Yes,” Sylvia said.
“Then we go,” Joan said, and they were off.
Once she got over the embarrassment of her tennis lesson, Franny decided that she was a professional journalist, not a lovesick teenager, and called Antoni at the number he’d given her, an extension at the tennis center. She booked the late afternoon—not for tennis, for talking. She could always pitch it to someone later, if she felt like it: Travel + Leisure, Sports Illustrated, Departures. Sylvia was out with Joan, the lucky duck, and the boys seemed content to sit by the pool and read, Jim with a hat pulled low over his wounded eye and Bobby with a frown so deep she thought it might leave a scar. Charles and Lawrence were on Bobby duty—making sure he didn’t hurt himself or, worse yet, call a taxi and book the first flight back to Florida. Franny wanted him there—miserable or not. It was the same philosophy she’d had about the children drinking alcohol as teenagers: better in her house, where she could keep an eye on it, than in the streets, where they might get arrested. She’d presented her afternoon out as work, but she wasn’t sure. Franny patted Jim on the arm and then drove herself back to the tennis center, stalling only once.
Antoni was waiting for her in the office, his arms crossed. Instead of his handsome gym teacher outfit, he was wearing a pair of dark blue jeans and a white button-down shirt that made his skin look as if the sun had kissed each pore individually. His sunglasses hung around his neck on the cord, but when she came in, he pulled them off over his head. Antoni walked toward her, his hand outstretched. When Franny met him in the middle of the room, she was surprised to find herself being pulled even closer, and Antoni quickly kissed her on both cheeks.
“Oh,” Franny said. “Isn’t that a lovely way to start the day.”
The phone rang, and the girl behind the desk picked it up and started speaking quickly in Spanish. Antoni ushered Franny back in the direction of the parking lot. When they were outside, Franny realized that they hadn’t made an actual plan—clearly he didn’t expect her to play, but they hadn’t talked about what they’d do while they talked. That was her favorite part of interviews: the starlet who scarfs down a plate of french fries in her favorite diner; the chef who walks around his small town with his dogs nipping at the heels of his wellies, a sandwich in his pocket. Franny liked to see what people ate.
“Have you had lunch?”
Antoni looked at his watch. “No, it’s early. Are you hungry? I’ll take you to the best tapas on Mallorca. Tourists aren’t allowed, but for me, they’ll make an exception. First we have a tour of the center, then we eat.”
“Well, yes,” Franny said, though Antoni was already walking through the lot and toward the chain-link fence at the far end. He strapped his sunglasses back on his head, and pulled a baseball cap out of his back pocket. Franny’s sandals thwacked against the ground, forcing her to walk with her knees jutting forward like a child playing dress-up.
There were thirty courts in all, in two long rows on either side of the administrative office. They ran camps for children, more serious training for competitively ranked juniors, and lessons for adults who were hopelessly past their prime but still interested in getting a better serve. Antoni looked at Franny when he mentioned the serve. Nando Filani was their most famous export, but Antoni was clearly proud of the center’s entire staff. Every time they passed a lesson in progress, or a sweating teenager hitting ball after ball, Antoni would clap twice and then nod or offer a few words of encouragement. Nando’s name was on the door, but it was Antoni’s clubhouse. Franny took notes that she doubted she’d ever use: Sound of auto tennis-ball machine. Sneakers sliding on dusty clay courts. Red ankles, white socks. AV/peacock, feathers extended.