The Vacationers

There was no food left in the house. Fra

“Who wants to come grocery shopping with me? I’ll throw in lunch. Who’s with me?” she asked the room at large—Charles and Lawrence were off exploring a nearby beach, and Carmen and Bobby were off ru

“God, yes. Please.”

Fra

“As if I’d kill you without giving you the chance to see him again,” Fra

According to Gemma’s notes, there was a super-sized grocery store about thirty minutes away, closer to the center of the island, larger and better stocked than the one Fra

“It’s like the land that time forgot,” Sylvia said.

“I think you mean it’s like the land that forgot time. This is the way it should be—Elton John on the radio and the best ham in the world. And family.”

“Nice afterthought, Mom.” Sylvia rolled her eyes and stared out the window.

The highway downgraded when they hit the outskirts of Palma, slowing to a one-lane road with stoplights, which meant that Fra

“Pretty sure this isn’t the grocery store,” Sylvia said.

“Oh, zip it. We’re having an adventure.” Fra

Nando Filani was Mallorca’s best and only hope at a grand slam or a gold medal. Twenty-five and surly, he stalked the edges of the court like Agassi or Sampras, hitting enormous serves that aced his opponents more often than not. He’d gotten in trouble a bit on the tour—someone’s teeth had been knocked out, which he swore was an accident with an errant ball—and this te

The air was full of thwacks and grunts—the sounds of balls hitting racquets, of te

“Mom.”

Fra

“Mom!”

Fra

“What are we doing here?” Sylvia slowly peeled herself off the car and trudged over to her mother’s side. It was warmer at the bottom of the mountain, and the sun was shining directly overhead. “It’s too hot.”

“We’re looking for Nando, of course!” It was smack between Wimbledon (which Nando had won the previous year, though this year he was ru

Sylvia slumped onto Fra

Fra

The office was clean and modern, with a large dry-erase schedule on one wall and a pretty young woman sitting behind a counter. Fra

“Hola. Qué tal?” said the woman.

“Habla inglés? My daughter and I are enormous fans of Filani’s, and we were wondering about lessons. Is it possible to sign up? We’re in Mallorca for about ten days, and we’d just love the chance to play where he played. You must be so proud of him.” Fra

“Lessons for two?” The woman held up two fingers. “Dos?”

“Oh, no,” Fra

“One?” The woman held up a single finger. “Lessons for one?”

Sylvia twisted her body into a pretzel. “Mom,” she said. “I respect that you’re trying to do something here, but I’m not exactly sure what it is, and I’m pretty sure that I have no interest. Or sneakers.” She pointed to her flip-flops and waggled her slightly dusty-looking toes.

“Do you have a list of instructors?” Fra

The woman slid a brochure across the counter. Fra

“I’m sorry, perdón, is this Antoni Vert?”

The woman nodded. “Sí.”

“Does he still live in Mallorca?”

“Sí.” The woman pointed north. “Three kilometers.”