“It was already gray then,” Sophie continued. “Sort of a dispiriting color for a resort. It looks prison-like, doesn’t it?” She produced a bottle from an ice bucket and poured a glass for Marianne, sat down on the built-in bench. The Manatee’s decking was gray too, the boards worn and softened like driftwood. “I’ve got some guests at the pool. We’ll stay here until they tromp out for the sunset, okay?”

Marianne handed her the bottle she’d brought, which Sophie plunged into the bucket—no saving for later. “What about a lighter blue-gray?”

Sophie tilted her head. “Maybe, but it’s a lot of expense for a small change. I was thinking a yellow”—she pointed to a blotch of sunflower paint on her overalls—“like this. You’ve been doing a lot of work at your place; it’s nice to see. It had been going downhill for a long time. Are you set to reopen soon?”

“In March. We still have a lot to do.”

“March! Too bad you’ll miss the holiday traffic. Well, more for me.” Sophie stretched her legs in front of her. “I take it you’re new to the exciting world of hotel ownership.”

“I’m not the owner,” Marianne said, surprised by how happy that made her. “I’m just the caretaker, I guess.” She took a long sip of wine before admitting: “It’s not really a hotel, either.”

“Even better!” Marianne wasn’t sure if it was novelty or lack of competition that made Sophie happy. “What is it then?”

“More of a school and … a retreat, for writers. When we open in March, that’s when our students arrive.”

“Brilliant! What’s it called?”

Marianne hesitated, remembering the bumper stickers—Coexist, Marriage Equality, NOW—she’d happily spotted on the back of Sophie’s Subaru. “Genesis Inspirational Writing Ranch.”

“Huh. Genesis, like in the Bible?”

“Like the genesis of an idea,” Marianne said. “But also like the Bible. We’re marketing to Christians, mostly. It’s a niche market.”

Sophie cocked an eyebrow.

Marianne turned her face toward the water, where the sun was sinking, fiery orange. “It wasn’t my idea. Well, it was my idea, originally, but I didn’t mean it.”

Sophie raised the other eyebrow.

“I moved here from New York. Basically, I had nowhere else to go. My apartment was being turned into condos, and I didn’t have steady work, and the owner of the motel invited me to be the administrator. Hired me. I guess you could say I missed certain boats—relationship boats, career boats—and I wound up here.”

“It’s not the worst place to land,” Sophie said, pouring more wine for them both. “Those boats can leak. They can sink.” She told Marianne about her divorce: a cheating husband, a cross-country move, the new financial reality of going it alone. “You’re not married?”

Marianne shook her head.

“No significant other?”

“Not exactly.”