Fitz mentioned it to Tim the day they arrived—in a cautionary way, as in, Aren’t you inviting trouble?—but Tim laughed it off.

They were out on the pool deck in their bathing suits, sipping their first margaritas of the summer, and she’d just handed Tim a folder of press clippings they’d collected on the way down. Tim was stretched out on a recliner, his body deeply tanned, his hair bleached from the sun. He looked good, fit, much younger than his years, but then he always looked good. It was genetic. Some people aged more quickly than others, some went to fat, some developed cellulite and skin like an iguana’s. But not Tim. Tim never changed.

Ken and Fanchon were there too, along with Charlie and Alice and two of the new people whose names she hadn’t caught. Everybody was drinking margaritas except Tim and Charlie, who were doing the salt, lime, and shot glass ritual.

“Huge thanks, Joanie,” Tim said, riffling through the clippings without seeming to take much notice of them. “Is that a new swimsuit? Yes? It looks great. You look great—doesn’t she, Fitz?”

Her husband had painted his nose with zinc oxide and it seemed to draw in all the light till it gleamed like a hundred-watt bulb. His shoulders—good shoulders, strong shoulders—glistened with the tanning lotion she’d rubbed on them before coming down from their room. The hairs on his chest formed two broad wings around his nipples and they were the palest red, almost translucent. Everything about him glowed. The pool danced and shimmered behind him. They were in Mexico. In the sun. And it was glorious. “She does,” he said, nodding in Tim’s direction. “But when you have a chance, look at those articles, will you? Because some of them—”

“Will do,” Tim said, bringing a hand up to shade his eyes, though he was wearing his dark glasses, “and this is great, thanks, but what were you going to say? Some of them, what? Attack us? Try to belittle what we’re doing down here as if they knew the first thing about it?”

“Joanie and I were just concerned you might be attracting too much attention, if you know what I mean.”

Tim laughed. “You hear that, Ken? Fitz is worried. Jesus, Fitz”—turning back to her husband now—“you sound like Dick. Dick’s mantra is less is more and I’ve been hearing it till it’s coming out my ears. Or at least one ear.” He gave them a self-effacing smile and pointed to his bad ear, which was free of its hearing aid because hearing aids and swimming pools didn’t make for a good match. “But you know what I say?”

He paused, grinning, and looked around at them one by one till somebody said, “No, what?”