“She’s not exactly a juvenile delinquent, she’s just trying to sell cake,” said Olivia, sitting beside him with a glass of iced tea. “I actually applaud her enterprise. I never knew the value of money until I had spent it all.”

“You still don’t.”

“What do you know about it?”

“How much does this place cost us per month, more or less?”

“I don’t know that off the top of my head.”

“I rest my case.”

Olivia had inherited the beach house; Hull had sold off their New York apartment, spent what he got for it, and now lived with his sister.

“God,” she said. “You’re insufferable.”

They sat peaceably for a few moments, watching the child.

“She never used to be so sullen,” said Hull.

“It’s all since she got those enormous tits,” said Olivia.

“I guess that must have been a shocker,” he said, draining his glass.

He got himself off the lawn chair and made his stiff way down the driveway. Olivia watched as he reached for his wallet, took it out slowly, and delicately, precisely removed four singles, standing over the prone girl, who sat up at last, then stood. As she rose, her arms jerked up, and Olivia saw the table lose its square shape, canting sideways, like a woman jutting out her hip, the loose joints yielding, shunting the crystal pitcher of lemonade to the right and causing it to slide downward and crash to the ground. The cake, still stuck to its china plate, rolled down the driveway, lurched left, and wobbled improbably into the road. She watched Lara run after it, hunkered down, hands waving before her, this big person, this impostor. Olivia felt despair flush through her as she scanned the remains of her pitcher, which was stubbornly beautifying the asphalt in sparkling shards.

Lara thudded down the road after the cake. She felt her limbs to be terribly heavy. Her breasts heaved and bounced as she ran. At last, the cake hit a bump and flopped over onto the plate. Other than a few chips of china embedded in its frosting, it was amazingly fine. Lara looked back to the house and saw Hull, his naked old torso constricted as he guffawed, his face red. The girl walked up the road, staring at the cake, holding the chipped plate from the bottom.

“Entirely my fault,” he said, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “But that thing is going to be fine.”

“You still want a slice?” she asked.

“Sure,” he said. “I like a little texture with my cake.”