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sorry,” said Nadine. “Who are you?”

      “Oh dear,” said the woman. “Didn’t your daddy tell you?”

      Nadine had not spoken to her father in months, maybe a year.

      “Where am I?” said Nadine.

      “Why, honey,” said the woman, “you’re at the Sandy Toes Bed and Breakfast.”

      Nadine touched her temple. The last thing she could remember was a man who smelled like rust. “You’ve been in a terrible accident,” the woman said, putting a fat hand on Nadine’s wrist. “Thank goodness you had your daddy’s card in your wallet.”

      Nadine stared at the hand.

      “He’ll be here any minute,” said the woman. “By the way, my name is Gwen.” Nadine did not answer. Gwen bit her lip and then released it, leaving a bright pink spot on her tooth. “Your daddy and I are in love,” she informed Nadine.

      “Is there room service?” asked Nadine.

      “What?”

      “Is there room service,” said Nadine, “at the Sandy Toes Bed and Breakfast?”

      “Well,” said Gwen, “of course there is.”

      “I’d like a tequila on the rocks, please.”

      “It’s the middle of the day, dear,” said Gwen.

      “A ham sandwich, as well,” said Nadine.

      Nadine had not seen her father, Jim, since her journalism school graduation a decade before. After the ceremony, Nadine had taken him to the Oyster Bar for dinner. It was her favorite restaurant: dark, smoky, and, to Nadine, glamorous. She ordered oysters and an expensive bottle of wine.

      “I think you’ll like this,” said Nadine when the waiter began to pour.

      “I’ll have a Coors,” said Nadine’s father, covering his wineglass with his palm. He looked around at the businessmen and well-heeled New Yorkers. Jim wore jeans, a green windbreaker, a cap that said FALMOUTH FISH.

      “So I’ve decided,” said Nadine. “I’m going to Cape Town.”

      “Cape Town?”

      “I’ll be freelancing, of course, but maybe it’ll lead to a job with the AP, or the Times. People are fighting the pass laws, standing up to the government. Remember that kid from Nantucket? Jason Irving? He was killed outside Cape Town last month. Everything is changing in South Africa. There’s so much to write about.”

      Jim sighed. “That kid from Nantucket,” he said. “Poor kid comes home in a coffin. This is your role model?”

      “Dad,” said Nadine, leaning toward him, “I could be in South Africa for the fall of apartheid!”

      “Nadine,” said her father, “for all I know, you’re speaking Chinese.”

      “Come on, Dad,” said Nadine. “Don’t you get The New York Times? I renewed your subscription, I thought.”

      “I’m busy, honey,” said Jim. “I get home late. It’s just so much paper.”

      “So much paper.”

      The waiter returned with a tray of oysters and horseradish sauce. “Flown in this morning,” he said, “from Buzzards Bay.” He stepped back with a smile and a nod.

      “If oysters is what you want,” said Jim, “I’ve got a rake and a pair of waders for you in the garage.”

      Nadine looked down at her napkin. “I wish you could try,” she said. She swallowed. “It’s not that Woods Hole isn’t great. I just–”

      “What about working for the Cape Cod Times?” said Jim. “Your mom used to read the Cape Cod Times. ”

      Nadine sighed. She drained her wine and poured another glass. For forty minutes, they talked about housing prices on the Cape, the new pizzeria on Main Street, and the traffic problem at the Bourne Rotary. Declining dessert, Nadine gave her father a quick embrace, walked him to his Midtown hotel, and took the six train downtown. At McSorley’s, she argued passionately about the future of Romania with a grad student who smoked unfiltered cigarettes. They agreed that Ceauşescu’s regime was on the verge of collapse, and then pressed against each other in a dim corner, the boy’s tongue hot in Nadine’s mouth.

      She moved to Cape Town the following week.

      Ten years later, her father stood before her, his hands in what could have been the same jeans. “Hey, now, Deanie,” he said, reaching out to touch Nadine’s hair.

      “What am I doing here?” said Nadine.

      “You were in some Mexican hospital,” said Jim. “You were beaten real bad. Your wrist and ribs got bunged up, you’ve got a nasty concussion.”

      “How long–”

      “You’ll be in Woods Hole awhile,” said Jim.

      “Woods Hole?” said Nadine.

      Jim put his arm around Gwen. “You can stay here as long as you need. Gwen and I own this hotel. We open for business in May, soon as the summer folks get here.”

      “The Sandy Toes,” said Gwen. “I thought of the name.”

      “So the closest airport is Hyannis?” said Nadine.

      “What?” said Gwen. She looked nervously at Jim.

      “Nadine,” said Jim, “you likely can’t feel it, but your wrist is still very weak. Not to mention head trauma. You were attacked, Nadine, by Mexican thugs. ”

      “Mm-hmm,” said Nadine. She reached for the phone, murmuring, “So Logan would probably be just as easy, or Providence–”

      “You can’t go anywhere!” said Gwen. “You’re very ill, dear!”

      “What the hell was she doing down next to Guat-e-amala, is what I’d like to know,” said Jim.

      “May I make a long-distance call, please? In private?”

      “Deanie,” said Jim. “Can’t you give it a rest?”

      “I’ll pay you back, of course,” said Nadine.

      “No, it’s fine,” said Gwen, flustered.

      “Thanks,” said Nadine. She picked up the receiver.

      “Maybe we can visit later,” said Gwen. Jim snorted.

      “Okay,” said Nadine, dialing quickly. Her father and Gwen exited the room, and Jim pulled the door shut with a thud that shook the Nantucket basket on the windowsill.

      “You are on mandatory vacation,” Ian said when Nadine finally reached him. In the background, Nadine heard the sounds of the New York office: typing, shouting, televisions tuned to CNN.

      Nadine sighed into the phone. “I’ve got to get out of here,” she said.

      “You’ve been beaten within an inch of your life by Mexican drug traffickers. I talked to your doctor. You can’t even use your left arm for two weeks.”

      “You think they were traffickers?”

      “Whoever they were, they didn’t want you nosing around,” said Ian. “Some shopkeeper called the embassy. You were found in a ditch. They could have killed you.”

      Nadine looked out her window, at the placid sea. A large vessel, the Atlantis, was docked in the harbor. “How long?” she said.

      “Six months.”

      “Ian!”

      “Three months. You need to rest.”

      “I know you don’t believe me,” said Nadine, “but I feel fine. I do, really.”

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