Almost before I could get the words out, one of the waiters set down a pitcher of golden syrup in front of me.

“Please, enjoy your meal,” Philippe said.

“This all looks so wonderful!” My mother beamed. “Right after we eat, we can go for a walk along the beach or—”

“Or lie down and rest for a while,” my father said.

“I feel fine.”

“Maybe I need to rest,” my father responded. “How about you, Sam?”

“I slept on the plane so I’m feeling pretty—” Then I clued in that that wasn’t the answer he wanted. “Yeah, actually, a nap would be good…although I was hoping to take a nap on the beach, in one of the cabanas.”

“A cabana was reserved specifically for you to do that,” Philippe said. “And I will arrange for your beds to be turned down in the bungalow.”

“Philippe, you are amazing,” my father said.

Philippe smiled. “If there is anything you need, you simply must ask.” He bowed from the waist and then left.

“Can you smell the air?” my mother asked. “It’s so, so…fresh!”

“It does smell lovely,” my father agreed.

It was nice—especially when combined with the smell of pineapple pancakes and syrup—but it was nothing special. My mother’s reaction had more to do with the fact that she hated the way New York smelled. It didn’t bother me. The only time I really noticed was in the middle of the summer. Then it did kind of stink. It sort of reminded me of somebody’s gym bag.

As we ate, I glanced up at my mother. She wasn’t the best sleeper even at home, and she didn’t seem to be able to sleep at all on planes. That made the trip down here that much harder for her. She looked tired, and I could see a slight tremor in her hand as she used her fork.

“I can’t wait to get out for a quick dip,” I said.

“But you will wait until I’m there, right?” my father said.

If he was going to nap, that might be hours. I didn’t want to wait that long.

“How about if I just wade out a little?” I asked.

“How about if you wait?”

“Come on, Dad, it’s not like I’m going to drown in two feet of water.”

“I’ve heard of people drowning in their bathtubs,” he countered.

“Okay, I’ll make you a deal. I won’t take any baths for the whole trip.”

He laughed. Good sign.

“I won’t go out far. You know how gentle the slope is here.” The water wouldn’t be over my head until I was at least twenty-five yards out from shore. “Besides, it’s not like I can’t swim.”

“Even good swimmers should have a buddy,” he said.

“Look who’s talking!” I exclaimed.

My father smiled sheepishly. We all loved the water, but my father was the person who Beth got her swimming genes from. He could swim for hours. Every summer we took a cottage on Cape Cod. My father would just swim, paralleling the beach fifty yards out, for miles and miles on end.