She started toward the Manatee Inn with her box of books balanced on a rolling suitcase, but turned around before she got to the sidewalk. Eric could mail her books to her—that was the least he could do, after tricking her into founding a sham institution of higher learning, and then selling it to an even shadier operation. For love, Frances said! Marianne left the books next to her orchid, which had dropped two more flowers, and lifted the suitcase by its handle.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again,” Sophie said when she arrived. She smelled like turpentine and whiskey, and held the door wide open.

Marianne looked around the cottage, protected from the storm by the main building, which sat between it and the water. Sophie had her storm shutters closed, yellow candles flickering, Loretta Lynn on the turntable. A new painting leaned half-finished on its easel. “You’re not evacuating?”

“We don’t evacuate,” Sophie said. “We’re the captains. We go down with the ship.”

“My ship is sunk. You should know that.”

“I read the paper. I’m sorry. You’ll survive it, though.” She poured whiskey into a jelly jar and handed it to Marianne, then turned back to her easel.

“Nope,” Marianne said, and took a bracing sip. “I’m done. And you didn’t just read the paper—you must have called Martin Rice. Maybe you called the protesters too.”

Sophie continued painting—a snowy egret in a dark pool of water. “Did you think you could keep it a secret?” Marianne didn’t answer, and Sophie continued. “You were drowning, kid. I saw it on your face, when Tad Tucker was waving you and your students around like he owned you. I mean, do you even know what that man is about?”

“Of course I do,” Marianne said. “I mean, now I do—we were in the process of extricating—”

“Bullshit,” Sophie said. “I did you a favor.”

“I have no job! And nowhere to live! And everyone at the Ranch hates me! Understandably, but still—”

“Then why did you talk?” Sophie’s brush scratched violently against the canvas, but her voice was calm. Maybe it was the smell of turpentine or the maddeningly patient questioning, but Marianne was reminded of teenage fights with her mother before she got sick. Sophie was right: Marianne didn’t have to meet with Martin Rice. She could have referred his email to Regina, who would have rebuffed him handily.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I was drunk. Sort of.”

“You do know,” Sophie said. “What you did was brave.” She turned to look at Marianne.

“You could have told me first.”

“You could have told your students first. You had a lot of chances. A lot of warnings. The protesters—”

“You put them up to it?”