“Stop,” Claire said.

They did.

“Plates in the sink.”

They sighed and did the eye-roll—though they were only nine and ten, they had learned from the best, their older sister. They trudged back as though through the deep snow of the Adirondacks, lifted plates that must have seemed like boulders, and somehow scaled the mountain toward the sink.

“Thank you,” Claire said.

They took off. The room was quiet now. Erik chewed quietly.

“Is there any more coffee?” he asked.

She poured some. He crossed his legs, careful not to crease his trousers. They had been married for nineteen years, but the passion had slipped out the window in under two. They were treading water now, had been treading for so long that it no longer seemed that difficult. Oldest cliché in the book was about how fast time went by, but it was true. It didn’t seem like the passion had been gone that long. Sometimes, like right now, she could look at him and remember a time when just seeing him would take her breath away.

Still not glancing up, Erik asked, “Have you heard from Aimee?”

“No.”

He straightened his arm to pull back the sleeve, checked his watch, arched an eyebrow. “Two in the afternoon.”

“She’s probably just waking up.”

“We might want to call.”

He didn’t move.

“By we,” Claire said, “do you mean me?”

“I’ll do it if you want.”

She reached for the phone and dialed their daughter’s cell phone. They’d gotten Aimee her own phone last year. Aimee had brought them an advertisement showing them that they could add a third line for ten dollars a month. Erik was unmoved. But, Aimee whined, all her friends—everyone!—had one, an argument that always always led Erik to remark, “We are not everyone, Aimee.”

But Aimee was ready for that. She quickly changed tracks and plucked on the parental-protection heartstrings: “If I had my own phone, I could always stay in touch. You could find me twenty-four-seven. And if there was ever an emergency . . .”

That had closed the sale. Mothers understood this basic truism: Sex and peer pressure may sell, but nothing sells like fear.

The call went to voice mail. Aimee’s enthusiastic voice—she had taped her message almost immediately after getting the phone—told Claire to, like, leave a message. The sound of her daughter’s voice, familiar as it was, made her ache, though she wasn’t sure for what exactly.

When the beep came, Claire said, “Hey, honey, it’s Mom. Just give me a call, okay?”

She hung up.

Erik still read his paper. “She didn’t answer?”

“Gee, what gave it away? Was it the part where I asked her to give me a call?”

He frowned at the sarcasm. “Her phone probably went dead.”

“Probably.”

“She always forgets to charge it,” he said, with a shake of his head. “Whose house was she sleeping over? Steffi’s, right?”

“Stacy.”

“Right, whatever. Maybe we should call Stacy.”

“Why?”

“I want her home. She has that project due on Thursday.”

“It’s Sunday. She just got into college.”

“So you think she should slack off now?”

Claire handed him the portable. “You call.”

“Fine.”

She gave him the number. He pressed the digits and put the phone to his ear. In the background, Claire heard her younger daughters giggle. Then one shouted, “I do not!” When the phone was picked up, Erik cleared his throat. “Good afternoon, this is Erik Biel. I’m Aimee Biel’s father. I was wondering if she was there right now.”

His face didn’t change. His voice didn’t change. But Claire saw his grip on the phone tighten and she felt something deep in her chest give way.

CHAPTER 12

Myron had two semicontradictory thoughts about Miami. One, the weather was so beautiful he should move down here. Two, sun—there was too much sun down here. Everything was too bright. Even in the airport Myron found himself squinting.

This was not a problem for Myron’s parents, the beloved Ellen and Al Bolitar, who wore those oversize sunglasses that looked suspiciously like welder’s goggles, though without the style. They both waited for him at the airport. Myron had told them not to, that he would get a taxi, but Dad had insisted. “Don’t I always pick you up from the airport? Remember when you came back from Chicago after that big snowstorm?”

“That was eighteen years ago, Dad.”

“So? You think I forgot how to go?”

“And that was Newark Airport.”

“Eighteen minutes, Myron.”

Myron’s eyes closed. “I remember.”

“Exactly eighteen minutes.”

“I remember, Dad.”

“That’s how long it took me to get from the house to Terminal A at Newark Airport. I used to time it, remember?”

“I do, yes.”

So here they were, both of them, at the airport with dark suntans and fresh liver spots. When Myron came down the escalator, Mom ran over and wrapped her arms around her boy as if this were a POW homecoming in 1974. Dad stayed in the background with that satisfied smile. Myron hugged her back. Mom felt smaller. That was how it was down here. Your parents withered and got smaller and darker, like giant shrunken heads.

Mom said, “Let’s get your luggage.”

“I have it here.”

“That’s it? Just that one bag?”

“I’m only down for a night.”

“Still.”

Myron watched her face, checked her hands. When he saw the shake was more pronounced, he felt the thud in his chest.

“What?” she said.

“Nothing.”

Mom shook her head. “You’ve always been the worst liar. Remember that time I walked in on you and Tina Ventura and you said nothing was going on? You think I didn’t know?”

Junior year of high school. Ask Mom and Dad what they did yesterday, they won’t remember. Ask them about anything from his youth, and it’s like they studied replays at night.

He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Got me.”

“Don’t be such a smart guy. And that reminds me.”

They reached Dad. Myron kissed him on the cheek. He always did. You never outgrow that. The skin felt loose. The smell of Old Spice was still there, but it was fainter than usual. There was something else there, some other smell, and Myron thought it was the smell of the old. They started for the car.