Eric was her “in case of emergency contact,” so his name appeared first in her contact list, in red. She wondered if she would have to change it if he married again, if she would have to find someone else. She could not imagine who that would be. The phone rang once, then she heard Eric’s cheerful recorded voice. “Eric,” she said. “It’s been a difficult day. There are protesters here who have information about this crazy GWGW sonography school, and I talked to Regina and she didn’t seem to have any idea that we didn’t want any more to do with this whole personhood debate, or Tad Tucker. Or GWGW.” She drew a long, ragged breath. “Call me back,” she said.

Marianne turned her pool chair around. Over the fence, beneath the trees, she could see the tops of the protesters’ heads as they marched up and down the sidewalk. Hardly a car drove by—this time of year was muggy and vulnerable to hurricanes and tropical storms, and most people preferred to spend it elsewhere. The people who were left were the true locals, elderly people and eccentrics, or the people who made their money during tourist season—chiropractors and Lasik surgeons, dentists available on an emergency basis, Pilates instructors and boutique owners and ice cream purveyors and landscapers. Marianne supposed she was one of them now.

She called Eric’s number, then called it again, not leaving messages, just calling, and had moved on to texting when Davonte appeared and sank into a chaise next to her, facing the opposite way.

“It’s finished,” he said, leaning back.

“What’s finished?”

“The book,” he said. “The first half anyway. Me and my man Eric got it done.”

Was this the reason he hadn’t been in touch with her? Was he holed up in a hotel room somewhere, finishing Davonte’s manuscript? Was he on the phone with Davonte when she called? And did this mean he’d be back soon?

“It’s really good. We start at the peak of Damian’s career,” Davonte said, holding one hand above his head, as if at the top of a roller coaster. “The tours, the women, the fast living—and then jump forward to his downfall.” He swooshed his hand down, then shook his head sadly, truly moved by the trajectory of his roman à clef. “I mean, I cried at that part.”

“Congratulations,” Marianne said. She remembered the feeling—rereading after finishing a good stretch of writing, allowing yourself to be moved by your own words—though it had been a long time, and she wondered if it was the same if you had someone else writing those words. But then, probably most of Davonte’s music involved a great deal of collaboration. It was still his story. She patted his newly muscular arm. “Really, Davonte. You should be proud.”