Helen gave Frankie a little shove. “Do you think I should ask if they would like a three-way?”

At that moment Miss Gee smiled at Helen while still stroking Abraham’s hair. “He’s such a honey.”

The next day Miss Gee was gone.

Abraham had begun forgetting whether he had already eaten or not. Around an hour after lunch he turned to Frankie at their cabana and insisted that he hadn’t eaten all day.

“They’re starving me!” he bellowed after a morning of complete silence.

“Who’s starving you, Dad?” Frankie asked gently.

“You know. They are. The ones in charge.” When Abraham mentioned “the ones in charge” he was usually referring to Helen, but at other times it could be his doctor or a hospital nurse.

“Dad, do you want to get some fruit?”

“Yes, fruit.” Abraham seemed ecstatic. “Fruit. That’s nice.”

Frankie took her father’s arm and helped him up from his chair. They began to walk to the snack shack on the beach. A week before Christmas Abraham had been diagnosed with Pick’s disease, a form of Alzheimer’s in the temporal and frontal lobes of the brain. A neurologist who specialized in memory-related dementia told Frankie there was no possible way to reverse her father’s losing his ability to talk altogether. Medicine could only ease the anxiety of the situation. In other words, with the right prescription cocktail, Abraham could happily forget what he was forgetting.

“You live here?” Abraham asked her after they had ordered at a beachside table.

“No, Dad, I live in New York on West Eighty-first Street and Columbus Avenue.”

“Don’t let them take advantage of you. Those sons of bitches hike up the rents.”

“I know that, Dad. Thank you.”

The waiter arrived with a tropical fruit plate. Abraham devoured every pineapple, mango, and watermelon slice in sight. “Delicious! Delicious! Do you want one?” He offered a berry to Frankie.

“No, Dad. I’m fine.” She looked up and noticed skywriting. “Dad, do you remember being on the beach when a plane scribbled in the clouds ‘Nixon’s the One’ and you said, ‘Don’t believe everything you read’?”

Abraham stared at her blankly. “Who’s Nixon?”

“Dr. Weissman? Dr. Weissman? I thought that was you!” Frankie bounced back from her childhood reverie to see Adrienne Strong-Rodman in a Miu Miu bikini and sarong charging toward her.

“She’s very intelligent.” Abraham was distracted from his remaining papaya. “Is she a movie star?”

Adrienne embraced Frankie. “I hope it’s all right to kiss you, we’re on holiday.” Adrienne had the Teflon reflex of all Hollywood success stories. Whatever distasteful incidents happened a month or five minutes ago were all forgotten because you never knew when somebody might be exactly who you were looking for.

“Are you at this hotel?” Frankie asked.

“No, we’re on Paul’s yacht. I just came ashore to pick up a few things in town. The Hermès here has things they just don’t carry in New York. Look at this bag.” She modeled a canvas Birkin. “Isn’t it fabulous?”