Robbie left the car while she was piping out her report. The girl was young enough to parrot adult comments without editing; the Baladines must have reported Robbie’s weight problem to strangers so often that it seemed natural to her to tell me about it. I wanted to say something reassuring to him, but he had slipped around the other side of the house.

“You know, there are worse things in life than being overweight,” I pointed out as I followed the girl past the garage.

“Yes, like stealing and getting sent to jail. That’s what Nicola did, so we had to get Rosario instead. I was only six when they arrested Nicola, so it was still all right for me to cry. I cried when Fluffy got hit by a car, too.”

“You are sensitive, aren’t you,” I said in admiration.

“No, that’s for crybabies. I don’t do it anymore, but Robbie cried over Nicola and he was almost eleven. He even cried when Fluffy killed a bird. That’s only nature. Mom! She’s here! She gave Robbie a ride from the gate to the house!”

We had arrived on the far side of the garage, where a four–lane twenty–five–meter pool and a tennis court offered the Baladines a chance to unwind after whatever rigors a day might hold for them. The pool and court were fringed with trees that created pleasing shade against the heat.

Two women were leaning back on padded chaises, eyes shielded by outsize sunglasses. Their swimsuits showed off bodies made perfect by total devotion to their care. They looked up when the girl and I appeared, but continued a desultory conversation with each other.

A third woman, also showing the kind of body that wealth and leisure afford, stood in the shallow end of the pool. She was coaching two little girls who were splashing along the lane next to her. Twin boys were jumping into the water at the deep end, chasing each other with plastic weapons. Several had been dropped at the edge of the pool. Space Berets action figures. I’d seen them at Mary Louise’s—both her boys collected them.

“Not so much motion with your kicks, Utah,” the woman in the pool commanded. “Rhiannon, don’t lift your arms so high coming out of the water. One more length, both of you, with less wave action. Jason and Parnell”— here she raised her voice to a shout, “if you don’t stop making so much commotion you’re getting out until we’re done here.”

She stood with her back to me while Utah and Rhiannon did another twenty–five meters, working hard to keep their splashing to a minimum. My guide watched critically.

“Utah’s my sister. She can do better than me when I was her age, but my form is improving. I’m definitely better than Rhiannon. Want to see?”