Her index finger rapped against her whiskey glass as her bare foot tapped the sleeping porch’s sandy floor. Crosby’s song “Swinging on a Star” was one of her favorites, and she’d sung it to countless audiences in the years right after the war, when broken soldiers and long-suffering wives and girlfriends wanted to rediscover their own destinies.

Yes, individual decisions counted in matters of fate, a lesson she’d figured out at a young age. But even the most careful and vigilant always faced the unexpected.

She had hoped Henry might return tonight. They’d shared a lovely evening, and he certainly liked her company. One more bite of the apple would be nice. She gulped the last of the whiskey.

Her last show had ended over two hours ago, and it was well past midnight. She guessed he wasn’t coming. Too bad.

As she rose, a figure moved through the shadows along the shore. The small, feminine frame stumbled along the waterline in large, staggering steps that faltered as a wave brushed over bare feet and splashed the folds of a white skirt. Drunk, no doubt. Here to have a good time, drank beyond her limits, and now in trouble.

As Carlotta turned toward her door, the woman fell. Her head bowed, and the moonlight reflected on blonde hair tumbling forward. A wave smacked her, knocking her sideways.

Carlotta waited for the woman to rise. Another wave collided into her, and instead of standing, she coiled her body toward the water.

Annoyance snapped. Easy to drown in the waves if she was passed out. Carlotta walked across the porch and out the side door and moved over the dune. Tall grass brushed her calves and arms as cool sand worked between her sandals and bare skin. Down the dune, she stumbled, caught herself with a few quick strides. Annoyance growing, she kept walking until her sandals crunched seashells rimming the land’s end.

Closer, the woman’s white dress, covered in small red cherries, was plastered against her skin.

Carlotta nudged the woman with her foot as a wave crashed and splashed cold, salty water. “You need to get up.”

The woman didn’t speak, didn’t look at her.

Unruly drunks and showboating went hand in hand, and she’d dealt with her share. Another wave crashed into the woman and swirled briefly around Carlotta’s ankles, soaking her leather sandals.

“Get up!” This time Carlotta grabbed her arm and yanked with her full strength.

The woman pulled away, glaring up through the web of her hair. “Leave me alone.”

Carlotta recognized Ann Manchester’s voice immediately. She and her husband had left her show early tonight, and it took no guesses to know they’d been drunk.

Tugging again, she hauled Ann Manchester up. “You’ll drown if you pass out in the surf.”

“It’s not that deep.”