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rental—and here it is barely March. Another month like this and we might be able to make our quarterly tax payment.”
    Before the economic meltdown, Beachside Realty had owned and managed between twelve and fifteen ocean-front houses. Now they were down to the five, of which Porpoise Watch and Pelican Perch were the original two. Although Laura was only half-joking about the quarterly tax payment, there had been times when the office expenses and both their salaries depended entirely upon the rental income from those houses. It was always a relief to have them occupied.
    Still, Carol said glumly, “Another month like this and we might have to start selling T-shirts to make the mortgage payments.”
    Laura lifted an eyebrow playfully, twirling a pineapple spear in her drink. “Well, if it's only T-shirts...”
    At Carol's lack of response, she shrugged and said, “Come on, kid, so you lost a couple of sales. It's not like you can't make them up before summer ends.  Beach real estate is on the upswing, don’t you listen to the news?  Why are you so down on yourself lately?”
    “Low self-esteem.”
    “Oh, right, that's always been your biggest problem. That must be why you've been president of the board of realtors only three times in the past five years, not to mention the ranking member of the million-dollar club for two years running and, frankly, I don't think I'll go on. I'm starting to depress myself. How's the swordfish?”
    Carol shrugged disinterestedly.
    Laura looked at her sympathetically. “Do you know what you need? A vacation. I mean, business isn't going to pick up here for another month at least. You know what spring break is going to do to the traffic around here in another month, and with your back acting up again, why don't you just take off for a couple of weeks?” She speared another forkful of pasta.
    “But that's the trouble with living in Paradise, isn't it?” replied Carol wryly. “There's no place to go on vacation.” Then, with an obvious effort to hold up her end of the conversation, Carol said, “Why don't you have a date tonight, anyway? I thought you and that pony-tailed fellow were on your way to becoming an item.”
    “Winston?” She waved a dismissive hand in the air. “Too weird.”
    Weird, in reference to Laura's dates, was a relative term, but Carol chose not to point that out. “I thought he was nice.”
    “He played with dolls, for heaven's sake.”
    “He collected,” Carol corrected, “priceless antique porcelains.”
    “Which I suppose means he was in touch with his feminine side.”
    “What it means is that he had a steady income, which is a vast improvement over most of your gentlemen friends.”
    Laura shrugged. “Maybe that was the problem. I like my men a little more dependent.”
    Carol rolled her eyes helplessly.
    A male voice spoke behind them. “Evening, ladies. Buy a sailor a drink?”
    Laura glanced around, pretended to spot someone up front, and beckoned. “Oh, bouncer.”
    Guy pulled up a chair between them and straddled it backward. “Mind if I join you?” He reached for a roll from the basket.
    Laura returned, “If you don't mind picking up the check.”
    Carol was constantly surprised by the way the sound of his voice could still make her heartbeat speed—sometimes with anger, sometimes with agitation or surprise, but always with anticipation. It was an instinctive thing, like a blush, that she could neither control nor explain. There was chemistry between them still, she supposed, and always would be.
    At forty-two, Guy was lean and lanky—too lean, occasionally, because he sometimes forgot to eat—with brown hair that was thinner than it had been when Carol had married him, and a long, thoughtful face that disguised an acerbic wit. From her father Kelly had gotten her dark hair and her impish sense of humor; from Carol she had gotten green eyes and a tendency to worry. Guy never worried. That was only one on a long, long list of