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Little more vino? Michael thought. Little more vino, bro? We’ll both go home in a wheelbarrow, you push, I’ll ride. Say when. Plop, plop, plink, plink, plop, plop, plop.

RF: And I hope you ain’t thinkin’ of Petey Bardo, neither. I got nothin’ against him, I promise you, but he’s got the personality of a fuckin’ rivet. Salute! Jesus, this is truly superb. He’s excellent at what he does ’cause he looks like a fuckin’ judge, those brown suits he wears, I never met nobody likes brown the way Petey does, I swear to God. But can you imagine him sittin’ down with some of the people from Harlem, f’ example, havin’ a few drinks with that bunch? Can you imagine him ever loosenin’ up that way? He’s a fuckin’ stiff, Anth, even if he is married to Josie. It takes more than just brains to keep this thing of ours together, this this we got.

AF: So who do you think? If I ever had to retire, you know.

RF: Probably who you were gonna say yourself.

AF: Who do you think I was about to say?

RF: If he wants it, that is.

AF: Who?

RF: He may like Vegas too much. Atlantic City too much. This is responsibility here. Girls, he likes girls too much. And gambling. He takes over for you, he’s got to have his head here, Anth, and not up some snatch. His head and his heart got to be here.

AF: I think we have the same person in mind.

RF: Sure. Lino, am I right?

AF: Lino, yes.

And there it was.

It had been her own fault, allowing Mollie to go out there without a life jacket, but she’d been doing that forever, and there’d been no reason to believe...

No, there was no excuse.

What was she supposed to tell Michael? That she’d almost allowed their daughter to drown? That if it hadn’t been for the bravery of a total stranger, Mollie might now be...

Well, not entirely a total stranger.

This was the man she’d said hello to last night outside the restaurant, the one Heather thought had big ears. Standing on the deck of the small boat, dripping wet and out of breath, hands on his hips, head bent, he watched silently as Sarah knelt over her daughter. Mollie was coughing and sputtering and spitting, but she seemed otherwise fine, if totally shaken.

“Thank you,” Sarah had whispered, more to God than to the tall stranger.

He nodded, still gasping for breath after the exertion of his hard swim against the chop.

He introduced himself as Andrew Farrell.

Said he was here in St. Bart’s on business, staying at the Guanahani.

She said she didn’t know how to thank him.

She would later remember all this in minute detail.

He said all he asked was a ride back to the yacht so he could pick up his shoes. She realized then that he’d dived overboard fully clothed, except for the shoes. White long-sleeved shirt plastered to his arms and chest, pale pastel-blue cotton trousers soaking wet.

She thanked him again as he climbed the ladder onto the Grand Banks. In a small voice, Mollie piped, “Thank you, Mr. Farrell.”

It wasn’t until later that afternoon that Sarah called the Guanahani and asked for Andrew Farrell, please. When he answered the phone, she told him who she was...

“Sarah Welles, you saved my daughter’s life...”

... as if there were a dozen Sarah Welleses whose daughters’ lives he’d saved, and then said she really felt they owed him more than a boat ride back to retrieve his shoes...

No, don’t be silly, he said, I was happy to be of assistance.

She would remember all this later.

Well, she said, my daughter and I feel we haven’t truly expressed our gratitude. Mr. Farrell... if you have no other plans, could we possibly take you to dinner tonight? Mollie suggested that you choose anyplace you like on the island...

Only if it’s my treat, he said.

She would remember all this.

No, no, she said, of course not, that’s not the idea at all.

My treat, he said. I’ll pick you up at seven thirty. I know where the house is.

Later, she would wonder how he knew.

Seven thirty is fine, she said, but I insist that...

See you later, he said, and hung up.

Michael caught Georgie at home at four that afternoon, packing for his trip to Vail.

“Few questions,” he said.

“I’m on vacation,” Georgie said.

“Regarding Anthony Faviola,” Michael said.

“I’m still on vacation.”

“One quick question, then.”

“Better make it very quick. I’m almost out the door.”

“Who’s Lino?”

“You asked me yesterday, and I still don’t know.”

“Not Lena, Lino. Or Mick-a-lino.”

“I haven’t the foggiest.”

“Never came across that name, huh?”

“Never.”

“I thought if anyone would know...”

“No, I don’t. Michael, I’m sorry, but my plane...”

“Can I come over there now?”

“No.”

“I want to look at your scrapbooks.”

“No. I’ll be back in the office on the eleventh. We can talk then.”

“Georgie...”

“Georgie me not. The slopes are calling.”

“I need to look at your clippings on Faviola.”

“Go to the library. Look up F-A-V...”

“Georgie, please. I think I’m onto something, but I have to...”

“Whatever it is, it can wait till the eleventh.”

“How about whoever took over for him?”

“His brother did. Everybody knows that.”

“Maybe not.”

There was a long silence on the line.

“Then who?”

“Somebody named Lino.”

“I still don’t know him.”

“Let me look at the scrapbooks.”

“No.”

“I can be there in twenty minutes...”

“I’m leaving here in an hour.”

“I’ll take them with me. I’ll bring a suitcase...”

“You’d better bring a trunk.

“Can I come?”

“Come already,” Georgie said, and hung up.

The place he’d chosen was on one of the island’s highest mountains, an aerie that offered stunning views from the terrace and the restaurant. They had drinks first on the terrace, Mollie ordering a club soda with lime and then launching into a long discourse on how it felt to be drowning and to have your whole life — all twelve years of it — flashing before your eyes like a music video.

“I’ll never forget the exact minute and hour,” she said, sipping through a straw and batting her lashes at Andrew over the rim of her glass, obviously already madly in love with the man who’d saved her life at twenty minutes to eleven this morning...

“But how do you know what time it was?” he said.

“I asked Mom. Did I try to drown you?”

“No, no.”

“If I’d tried to drown you, would you have knocked me unconscious?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I’ve seen them do that in movies.”

“I didn’t have to. You were very cooperative.”

They sat on the terrace sipping their drinks, reliving the morning’s experience, Sarah admitting she got really frightened the moment she saw Mollie go under for the second time...

“Is it true about the third time being the last one?” Mollie interrupted.