The Vacationers

Fra

The ride was quick, and they landed in sun-drenched Palma in under an hour. Fra

The house they’d rented was a twenty-minute drive from Palma proper, “straight up a hill,” according to Gemma, which made Fra

Jim sorted out the rental car while Fra

“Mom,” Sylvia said. She pointed to a black suitcase the size of a small coffin. “Is that yours?”

“No,” Fra

“I don’t know why you packed so much,” Sylvia said. “It’s only two weeks.”

“It’s all presents for you and your brother,” Fra

Sylvia fluttered her lips like a horse and went to fetch her mother’s bag.

“Oh, those guys,” Sylvia said, and gestured with her chin toward the Too-Loud Motorcyclists. “I love them.”

“They’re overgrown children,” Fra

“No, Mom, they’re The Sticky Spokes Rock ’n’ Roll Squad, see?”

Sleepy Terry had turned around to pick up his suitcase, a slightly incongruous orange rollie, exposing not only the pale crack of his bottom but also the back of his leather jacket, which read in giant block letters just as Sylvia had dictated.

“That’s a terrible name,” Fra

Sylvia had lost interest and was hurrying over to her own bag, now skidding down to the lip of the conveyer belt with a soft plop.

The Posts hadn’t vacationed in years, not like this. There were the summer rentals in Sag Harbor, the unhampton, as Fra

The house was in the foothills of the Tramuntana Mountains, on the far side of the town of Puigpunyent, on the winding road that would eventually lead to Valldemossa. No one could pronounce Puigpunyent (the car rental agent had said Pooch-poon-yen, or something of the sort, unrepeatable with an American tongue), and so when Sylvia insisted on calling it Pigpen, Jim and Fra