Oscar Jensen strolled up, a lit cigarette in hand. “Did somebody say Harry Bronson died?”

“Oscar, put that thing out,” Ava snapped. “Nobody died.”

By now the crowd of regulars had grown to more than a dozen people, worriedly murmuring among themselves.

“Everybody, listen up,” Ava said. “Here’s what happened. Harry Bronson was having chest pains. He didn’t want Sheila to call 911, so I called Joe, and he called 911. In the meantime, Letty got him to take some aspirin, which is the best thing to do. The EMTs told us they think maybe Harry did have a heart attack. They gave him some nitroglycerin, and took him to the hospital. Joe took Sheila over there in his truck. He’ll call me as soon as they have news, and I’ll let everyone know.”

Oscar Jensen stubbed out his cigarette on the pavement, and when Ava glared at him, picked up the butt.

“That’s it. We’re screwed,” he told Merwin. “Might as well call off the tournament if we don’t have Harry. He’s our ace.”

“Damn,” Merwin said. “I thought we might have a chance this year. That guy from the Michigander, the one with the wicked forehand spin? I heard he got prostate cancer. Didn’t even come down this year.”

“We’re not calling off the tournament,” Ava said. “It’s too late for that. Joe will keep us updated on Harry’s condition, but we’ve got other players. And anyway, I already bought all the food and beer and wine. We’ll see you all at six o’clock in the rec room,” she said, loudly enough for everyone to hear.

One by one, the regulars drifted back to their rooms. It was three o’clock.

The door to her unit was slightly ajar. Isabelle was sitting at the tiny kitchen table in Letty’s motel room, reading a paperback mystery from the rec room’s lending library. “She’s asleep,” she whispered, nodding in the direction of Maya, who was tucked under the covers in the bed. “We swam in the pool for a while, and I gave her lunch.”

“Thanks,” Letty said, sinking down onto the bed. “What a morning!”

“I heard what my mom said about Mr. Bronson,” Isabelle said. “Is he going to be okay?”

“I hope so. Poor Sheila. The way he yelled at her—and at me, was awful. I felt so sorry for her. She was just trying to help.”

Isabelle dog-eared the page of her book and stood up. “He can seem pretty grouchy sometimes, but my mom says he’s actually a nice guy. He knows a lot about gardening, and every year he brings her plants and seeds from his garden up north. He planted all those flowers around the pool, and down by the beach walk. And he drives Miss Wilona to church every Sunday, because he said he doesn’t want her taking the bus.”