Marianne was fairly sure there hadn’t been any agents at the party. Maybe Mark had paid someone to pretend to be one? That would be low, even for him.

“You must know her.” Janine waved her hand dismissively. “I just meant to say, this is all new to me. Completely new. And also that it must be nice to have a partner who understands what you do. My husband—he’s a contractor—he’s very supportive of my work, but I don’t think he understands it. Poetry. You must have a lot of readers, since you’re published.”

Marianne thought about divulging the print run of her chapbook—two hundred and fifty slim copies, circulating mostly with friends and classmates—but decided against it. “It’s good to have a first reader who’s close to you. I actually send my poems to Eric first. I have since we were in school.”

“That’s beautiful,” Janine said. “To have someone you trust, another writer, a partner …”

“Novel writing is probably closer to contracting than you’d guess,” Marianne said. “And Eric and I, we’re good friends, that’s all.” She felt Janine looking at her in the near dark, and her face grew warm.

“Okay,” Janine said. “I should go call Rick and the girls. See you tomorrow.” She hoisted her chair under her arm and began the trip back to her room. Marianne wanted to call her back, to explain that they really were just complicated friends, but she knew that would only make the opposite case. She turned back to the gulf, where just a faint line of pink hovered over the horizon, and wished that someone would join her.

7