Lara finished her disgusting, delicious drink. She put it down and took another from a passing tray. She had never felt she didn’t care as much as she didn’t care right then. It was a wonderful feeling. She closed her eyes and listened to the waves.

Lara was a water nymph, her mother had always said. A girl who needed the sea. After a week at school in Connecticut, she had called her mother in Paris, weeping hysterically. Olivia overnighted her a plastic object from Hammacher Schlemmer that produced a cycle of remarkably wavelike sounds; Lara kept the machine going in her dorm room day and night.

She heard her mother’s voice and opened her eyes. Olivia and Hull were talking to George Palacio behind a screen of milling people. George wore a brocade jacket and dark jeans, exuding confidence. His black hair was slicked wet, his skin shone. Olivia looked up at him, her delicate arm wrapping a frothy, light green shawl around herself protectively. Hull’s worn face was pitched like a tent, held up by his worried eyebrows.

“It’s been hard,” Olivia confessed. “But in some ways, I have been happy to be home again.”

“I can only imagine,” said George. “You know, I’m glad to have a chance to talk to you both.” Lara took a small step toward them, to listen but not be seen. George continued: “I wanted to express to you that, should you ever have any interest in putting your house up for sale, at any time in the future, please come to me first. I would pay market price, cash, you would save all the brokers’ fees. No pressure whatsoever, I simply want you to know.”

“What would you need another house for? To flip it?” asked Hull, jutting out his chin. George smiled.

“Nothing like that. I would like to offer it to Alex and Mac, as a wedding present—or a gift at some point. It’s Polly’s dream that the grandchildren be just down the beach from us.” There was a pause. Lara held her breath, waiting.

“Do you happen to know what the market price would be,” asked Olivia, “of our house?” Her tone was strange, laced—Lara knew—with the subtlest tincture of irony.

“We would have to get it assessed to know exactly, but at least twelve.”

“Twelve million dollars.”

“At least. You’re right on the sea. A beautiful, rare property.”

“We know what we have,” said Hull.

“Of course, you may not want to sell. I mention it only in case. I would hate to miss the chance. I know—that is, I can imagine—you might want to start again, somehow…”

“It’s good to know, George,” said Olivia, setting her hand on his thick wrist. “Thank you.”