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picnic table on the wooden deck. She flinched at the sudden wash of sunlight, so he told her to leave her eyes covered. With no assistance she was able to find the food, wolfing down four pieces of snapper and two helpings of black beans and rice. Afterward Stranahan brought her a piece of Key lime pie and a cold beer.
    “Best meal I ever had,” she declared, groping for another napkin.
    “I’d say you’re going to be just fine.”
    “What’s that sound—a helicopter?”
    “Yep. Coast Guard,” Stranahan said, watching a distant orangish speck streak across the bay.
    Joey said, “Wonder if they’re searching for me.”
    “Could be.”
    She shifted restlessly. “You want to go back inside?”
    “Why?” said Stranahan.
    “Is the sun going down? I can tell because it’s getting cooler. Is it pretty tonight—the sunset?”
    “I’ve never seen a bad one.”
    Joey said, “Tomorrow the towel comes off and I finally get to find out what you look like. I’m guessing a middle-aged Clint Eastwood.”
    “Then you’re in for a major disappointment.”
    “But you’re tall, right?” she said. “Late forties?”
    “Early fifties.”
    “Gray around the temples?”
    “You want another beer?”
    “Not just yet,” Joey said. “Give me your hands again.”
    Stranahan laughed. “I don’t think so. They’re awful fishy.”
    “You eat with your fingers! I like that.”
    “My table manners aren’t what they used to be,” he said. “Comes from living alone, I guess.”
    Joey said, “How many times have you been married? I know it’s incredibly rude to ask but, well, I’ve got a hunch.”
    “Six,” Stranahan said. “Six times.” He stood up and began gathering the plates off the table.
    “Jesus. I was going to guess three.”
    “See, I’m full of surprises.”
    “What happened?” Joey asked, but all she got in reply was the bang of the screen door. Moments later she heard a running tap and the clink of dishes in the sink. When Stranahan came back outside, she apologized.
    “What for? “he said.
    “Being so nosy. I figured you must be pissed, since you slammed that door.”
    “Naw, the hinges are rusted to hell is all.” He placed a cool bottle in her hand. “But it’s true, six ex-wives is nothing to brag about.”
    “At least none of them tried to murder you,” Joey said.
    “One came pretty close.”
    “Really? She go to jail?”
    “Nope. Died.”
    Joey’s breath seemed to catch in her throat. She took a long unsteady slug of beer.
    Stranahan said, “Relax, honey. I didn’t kill her.”
    “Who was she?”
    “When I met her? A waitress, just like the rest of ‘em.”
    Joey couldn’t help but giggle. “You married six waitresses?”
    “Actually, it was five. The last one was a TV producer.”
    “Oh, Mick—”
    “And they were all fairly wonderful at the start. Whatever went wrong was usually my fault.”
    “But what in the world were you thinking? I mean, honestly, by the time you got to number six—”
    “Oh, I wasn’t thinking,” Stranahan said. “Love isn’t about thinking. You should know that.”
    Joey Perrone leaned back and turned her draped face toward the fading light. “The sky out there, I bet it’s all pink and gold. God, I must look like a horror with this blindfold.”
    “Is Chaz your first husband?”
    “Second. The first one died.” She added quickly: “In an accident.”
    “That sucks.”
    “He was a stockbroker. Chaz is a biologist.”
    Stranahan said, “The no-see-ums are chewing you up. Let’s go back inside.”
    “Funny, the only time my eyes really hurt is when I cry,” she said. “If only I could stop.”
    “Come on, take my hand.”
    “No, I like it out here. The bugs don’t bother me.” Joey gave a defiant sniffle. “And, listen, it’s not that sonofabitch Chaz Perrone that I’m bawling about. I’m ninety-nine percent sure I didn’t even love him anymore.”
    Stranahan said nothing. He was an expert on dying relationships, the