“Let me guess,” she said. “Does the dress have anything to do with the owner of that car I saw you getting into this morning?”

“It’s from my sister’s boyfriend,” Scarlett said. “That was his car.”

“Ah.” She stirred the Bloody Mary for a moment, looking very pleased with herself. “The opposite of rich is the best thing to be, anyway. There’s nothing like working for what you want. It’s the only way.”

This seemed odd coming from a woman who was clearly of the rich persuasion. But maybe she had worked for it. Mrs. Amberson drummed her nails on her lap for a moment and gazed at Scarlett.

“So,” she said, “what do you do with your time?”

That was a good question, one for which Scarlett didn’t really have an answer. So she went with her most recent idea.

“I write.”

“Write?” Mrs. Amberson said. “Very ambitious. I like it. And you’re certainly in the right place. Why, this hotel…do you know what it’s famous for?”

“The Algonquin Round Table,” Scarlett said. “The group of writers who used to meet here.”

To be fair, hotel lore was somewhat of a specialty in the Martin family, but Scarlett would have known that anyway.

“A reader,” she said, impressed. “And who said the book is dead?”

Then she seemed to lose interest in the whole matter with a massive yawn. She fished around in her purse for a pen and a notebook, and spent a few minutes scrawling. Then she fished around some more, producing some strange multicolored bills.

“Baht, baht, baht…here we are.”

Dollars followed. She pushed them toward Scarlett.

“Here’s money for the check, and for that tea, when you get the chance. Keep the rest—I’ll be sending you out on errands, I’m sure. That will cover them for a while. I’m going to yoga. See you later.”

Mrs. Amberson downed the rest of her Bloody Mary and demolished the rest of her celery stick. Then she picked up a sleek little gym bag by her feet and was gone without another word.

Scarlett looked down and saw that she was holding what had to be about five hundred dollars.

“What was that all about?” she asked herself.

She was still sitting there holding the wad of cash when the waiter showed up with the massive plates, the water, and the decked-out fake pina colada, thick with a dozen cherries.

“Where did she go?” Marlene asked, coming back and snatching up the glass.

“To yoga.”

Marlene seemed satisfied by this turn of events and gobbled down her miniburgers. She ordered a second colada. Scarlett nibbled at the snack plate she had gotten. It was a relief when her phone rang and Spencer’s name appeared on the screen.

“I need you,” he said when she answered.

“Stop it, Orlando. Stop calling me. If we get married, my name will be Scarlett Bloom, and that sounds like a rash.”

“You can’t see me right now,” Spencer said, “but I actually just peed myself laughing. My shorts are soaked.”