We go a little ways down the beach, where I coax her up to the boardwalk in front of her hotel. It’s still a gutted shell, though the debris has been hauled away. On what’s left of the veranda, two matching rocking chairs sit looking out on the water. Flickering candles line the railing. Mac’s breath hitches. Slowly, she turns to meet my earnest gaze. “What’s this?” she whispers. “First time you brought me here, you told me that you pictured guests sitting out here in rocking chairs, sipping wine, watching the waves roll in.” She looks up at me with the thousands of tiny lights of the
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