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the only ones who live up to the cliché. If I were sitting there alone, I would’ve never said one word to them. I would’ve opened my notebook and worked on an article. Plus, I had a boyfriend. But not Maya–she always flirts.  
    She’d started a conversation with them that lasted an entire hour. First, she commented on how big their feet were in their work boots. Every time one of them tried to include me in the discussion about what parts of the city they were called out to the most, Maya would subtly remind them that I had a boyfriend.  
    “Oh, her boyfriend lives in that area.”
    “Oh, her boyfriend worked at the studio when it caught fire.”
    “Oh, Daisy’s boyfriend said that too.”
    What caught me off guard was that one of the firemen said, “Oh, is that your name? Daisy? Like the flower?” He seemed upset that Maya monopolized the entire conversation.
    He and I smiled at each other, but then Maya found a way to focus his attention back on her. She dropped her fork near his big foot and leaned across the aisle to get it. She made sure he got an eyeful of her perfect, perky 34D implants–which she’d fashioned after my 34C real ones. I turned to look dejectedly over the boardwalk.
    Maya and the firefighter ended up exchanging phone numbers. They went on a few dates before, according to her, she got bored and decided to cut things off with him.  
    Maybe Charlie’s right. Maybe she wasn’t interested in that firefighter until we smiled at each other.  
    Struck by enlightenment, I look at Charlie. He’s already staring at me. I think we’re caught in a moment. Then I hear a familiar voice say, “There you are!”
    Charlie and I quickly look behind us. It’s Belmont, and he has a glass of wine.
    “The burgundy you requested,” he says, staring daggers at his brother.
    “That’s okay,” I say and lift the glass in my hand. “I already have a drink. Charlie’s special brew.”
    Charlie is facing the ocean. I’m the only one smiling. Of course, I should be angry with Belmont, but I’m not. After my talk with Charlie, the ocean, and the spirits, I feel as though I can finish out my two weeks, write a spectacular article, and move on with my life. Yet the moment is awkward. I’m not sure who Belmont is angry with: Charlie or me.  
    “When I came back to find you, you were gone,” Belmont says in an accusatory tone.  
    Twisting in the chair to look at him feels awkward, so I rise to my feet. “I…” Then my weakened knees give out. I fall back down in the chair and drop my glass, spilling the red liquid.
    Belmont is right there to collect me, lifting me out of the chair with one arm and holding me against him. Jeez. My head feels as if ducks are revolving around it. The side of my face is pressed against his hard, warm chest.  
    I listen to his heartbeat as he growls, “What the hell are you doing, Chuck?”
    Before Charlie can respond, Belmont whisks me up and walks me carefully up the stairs.  
    “I can call a cab,” I burble.
    “You’re not calling a cab, Daisy,” he grumbles. “You can sleep it off in one of the guest rooms.”
    “No, I can call a cab,” I insist.
    “There’ll be no cab calling,” he says as if that’s final. Belmont sets the glass of burgundy down on the stoop of the guesthouse and walks me to an unlit part of the main house. He fishes keys out of his pocket and unlocks the back door. Since I’m dizzy and groggy, I close my eyes as he leads me up another flight of curving stairs. I walk blindly until I make contact with a fluffy duvet on top of a soft bed.  
    One by one, Belmont removes my sandy sandals. Then there’s nothing: not a sound, no more touching. I struggle to lift my heavy eyelids, and I see my caretaker standing at the side of the bed, gazing at me.
    “I didn’t mean to drink too much. I only had a glass and a half,” I manage to say. “Maybe two.”
    “I’m not blaming you. I blame Chuck. I’m not going to leave you by yourself