Akiva blinked. Was that the end of his pitch? He had cards in his pocket; he’d been practicing the whole flight here

T

he pool was kidney-shaped and very, very blue. Almost too blue, in Akiva Frankel’s opinion. There was something eerily artificial about the Miami Boutique Plaza’s pool.

Walking languidly to the drinks cart, he filled up a glass with shredded ice and held it out for a waiter to silently pour sparkling lemon water. He nodded his thanks and sipped it slowly.

The party was going well.

Zeida Hersh was sitting in a straight-backed chair that could really only be classified as a throne. Akiva watched him nod at Bubby, sitting in an identical chair with the women over at the buffet, who were sipping pink drinks and laughing about something one of them had said, probably his sister, Meira.

She had the most shocking sense of humor and could diffuse any situation in a matter of seconds.

A shriek of, “Tatty, watch me!” pierced the Miami haze. That could only be his Mali.

He smiled as his four-year-old cannonballed fearlessly into the pool. He watched; so did three of Miami’s most qualified lifeguards. Mali resurfaced, shouted “Again!” and charged out of the water, followed by a trail of cousins. She was a born leader. Didn’t get that from him.

He turned, aimless for a moment. Should he go join Gersh and Donni? They were laughing about something over at the cabanas.

“Akiva, bring Zeida a seltzer.” His father was snapping a hand at him, nervousness masked as impatience. Yehuda Frankel was fanatic about his father’s health.

That decided it, then. He headed back toward the drinks cart and then hurried the drink over. Yehuda Frankel took it from his son and handed it to his father. “Drink, Da. It’s hot.”

Zeida Hersh nodded his thanks, drinking deeply.

Uncle Gedalya sat on Zeida’s left, fingers splayed around a tumbler, scotch, neat, of course. Was it obvious to all the way he leaned into Zeida possessively, as if to say I may not be the eldest but I’m important, too? Or did Akiva just know too much, that he saw the way his uncle’s fingers gripped his cup too tightly?

He settled onto a chaise behind the older men, eyes closing automatically as a beam of golden-hour light warmed the poolside. Sun hit differently in Miami, that’s for sure.

“Libby’s looking for you,” Meira said as she strolled past on her way to the sushi cart.

Looking around for his wife, he found her deep in conversation with Deena over by the seven-foot cloth banner that read, Happy Eighty-Fifth Birthday, Zeida!

His wife’s body language was regular — calm, poised, elegant — but her eyes were shooting darts at him to come and rescue her from whatever drama Deena was involved in at that current moment.

Was he terrible if he pretended he didn’t see?

He pretended he didn’t see.