Rosa opened the door of the darkened bedroom. There was a shape in the bed, but she couldn’t tell if the person was asleep.

The room was filled with vases of flowers. There were hibiscus and frangipanis, with lots of other brightly-colored blooms. When she eased inside, their floral perfume was like going into a florist shop. Was it Mere who’d filled Tiny’s room with flowers? If so, it was a lovely gesture.

Rosa crept in with the bottle of champagne in her hand. If Tiny was asleep, she’d leave the bottle on the dresser and go. But as she put it down, the person on the bed stirred.

“Hi Tiny,” whispered Rosa, going to the side of the bed.

Tiny was pale, with dark shadows under her eyes. She blinked sleepily, then focused on Rosa and gave her a little one-sided smile. “You came.” When she spoke, Tiny’s mouth didn’t move the way it used to. The right side of her face dragged down a little, and the words came out slow and slurred.

Rosa’s heart clenched. Tiny had spent her school years in a blur of activity. As well as her packed schedule of after-school art classes and her obsession with science fiction movies, she’d studied hard and done well in class. Now there was a fragility and stillness to her, as though her life force had been drained away.

“‘Course I came,” Rosa said lightly. “But I didn’t mean to wake you. How are you feeling?”

“I’ve been better.”

“I’m sorry,” Rosa murmured, sitting on the side of the bed.

Tiny moved over to give her more room, and Rosa watched the awkwardness of the movement, trying to figure out what seemed so wrong about it. It was only when Tiny reached behind her to hitch up her pillows that Rosa realized she wasn’t moving her right arm.

When Mere had called Rosa, asking her to come, she’d said Tiny’s muscles were weak down one side. But her right arm seemed worse than just weak. It hadn’t moved at all.

Rosa swallowed. She was used to seeing dried smears of paint on Tiny’s hands and under her fingernails. Now her right hand lay limp and clean. The sight was far worse than the weakness in her friend’s face.

“Hey,” said Rosa. “I brought the bubbles.” She motioned to the champagne on the dresser, already wondering if she’d made a mistake bringing it. The bottle had become a tradition she and Tiny had kept up over the years, born from a late-night conversation they’d once had. Champagne had been flowing at the time, and they’d pinky-sworn to always drink the stuff together, in good times and bad. Like Winston Churchill had said, in victory they deserved it, and in defeat they needed it.

That had been a lot of years ago, and whenever either one of them had been low, the other had been there with both support and bubbles, at least in spirit. Even if it was only their tradition of saying “Cheers” at the end of a phone call instead of goodbye.

But now bringing the bottle seemed like a mistake. Would Tiny ever be well enough to share a glass with her again? Maybe Rosa had miscalculated, and the bottle would be a reminder of what Tiny had lost.

“Anyway.” Rosa stepped in front of the dresser to block the bottle from Tiny’s view. “Can I get you something? A glass of water?”

Tiny shook her head and shifted again, readjusting her pillows. She looked exhausted, and Rosa felt a pang of guilt. No wonder Dalton hadn’t wanted her to see her friend today.

“I only arrived about an hour ago,” Rosa said brightly, her cheerful tone horribly forced. “And I’m already in love with the place. It’s even more beautiful than I thought it’d be.”

“Glad you’re here.” Tiny closed her eyes slowly, as though they were too heavy to hold up.

“I am too. But you should get some more sleep now, okay? I’ll come back and have a proper visit tomorrow.”

As Rosa turned for the door, she noticed some darker-colored squares on the walls that showed where pictures must have once hung. Tiny’s own paintings, probably, if her friend’s old bedroom in Sydney was any indication. But the walls in this room were now bare. If pictures had been hanging here, why had she taken them down?

Rosa faltered when her brain connected the dots. Tiny’s right arm wasn’t working properly. For most people that would be bad enough, but Tiny had lived for her art. If she couldn’t draw or paint, what would she do?

“You met my brother?” asked Tiny in that slurred, exhausted tone.

Rosa turned back to the bed. “I did. But he didn’t seem pleased to see me.”

“We need you.”

“Not according to him.”

The good side of Tiny’s mouth twitched, in a movement that a little optimism might let Rosa interpret as the shadow of a smile. “Since when do you listen?”

Rosa laughed more enthusiastically than she would have if she wasn’t trying to hide the fact that tears were suddenly pricking behind her eyes. Bad enough seeing Tiny so pale and weak, but to glimpse even the faintest hint of Tiny’s old humor and spark was a heartbreaking reminder of the energy that used to radiate from her.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I don’t plan to listen. I don’t scare easy, remember?” Well, that used to be true. Before Otto. “I’m going to stay and run this place just as well as you would,” she told Tiny. “Don’t worry about anything, okay?”

Tiny closed her eyes again. “Okay.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” whispered Rosa. “Sleep well.”

She slipped out of Tiny’s room and stood for a moment in the hall of Tiny’s little house. There were more marks on the walls here that told her two paintings had been taken down. Down the hall was a closed door. The bedroom where Dalton was staying, perhaps? Rosa took a step toward it, almost curious enough to risk easing the door open and peeking in. But she stopped herself, glancing toward the front door. If Dalton came in right now and caught her, it wouldn’t improve his opinion of her.

Instead, she put her head into the living room, where it looked like three more paintings had been removed. The place was simple but feminine, with cream walls, floral curtains, and bright cushions on the cane furniture. She could imagine Tiny picking out the colors with her artist’s eye. On the coffee table, a wooden carving of a bird in flight took pride of place. And on the book case was a photo of Tiny and Dalton. He had an arm thrown across her shoulders and both were smiling. Rosa stepped forward for a closer look. The picture obviously hadn’t been taken on Lantana, because they were wearing warm jackets. Sydney, perhaps? Tiny occasionally went back to visit the aunt and uncle who’d raised her. Each time, she and Rosa had met up to share some champagne and laughter. But now those two things seemed a long way away.

Rosa lifted her finger to gently brush across the glass of the photo frame. It was hard to believe the man in the picture was the same one she’d just met. She couldn’t stop staring at the shape of his dark eyes, creased in the corners by the warmth of his smile. The Dalton in the photo looked like the kind of guy everyone would gather around at parties, because he’d tell the best stories. His charisma shone right out of the frame.

So how come she’d met the darker, meaner version of Dalton? Did he have an evil pirate twin? Or had his sister’s illness punched him in the guts hard enough to drive that gorgeous smile away?

Rosa felt a twinge of guilt for christening him Captain Ass-Wipe. She hadn’t realized how low Tiny was. Seeing her like that had been a shock. It had to be tough for her brother.

She took one final look at the photo, then let herself out of the house. As she stepped onto the shell path outside, a tall figure came barreling around the corner, almost colliding with her. He grabbed her arms, and Rosa found herself a few inches from Dalton’s naked chest.

He smelled good. Sweaty, yes. But manly. A musky, hard-work, fresh-air smell that spoke to something primal, deep inside her. The smiling, protective man from the photograph was fresh in her mind and she had a sudden urge to nestle her face into his neck. She wanted to feel the safety and reassurance of a man’s large arms. To have him murmur in her ear that everything would be okay.

Until she raised her eyes and saw the frown that darkened his handsome features.

“What the hell are you doing here?” His voice was rough. “Didn’t I say Tiny was too tired to see you today?”

“I only stopped in for a moment.” She stepped backward, jerking free of his grip. To her horror, a single tear managed to break free and rolled, hot and heavy, down her cheek.

Dammit, the last thing she wanted was for him to see her upset. She swiped the thing away. She was Rosa Roughknuckles, the best resort manager in the South Pacific, and she’d come to save the damn day, not fall apart in front of him.

He was still frowning, but when he spoke again, his voice was a little gentler. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.” It came out loud and angry, so she stopped and dragged in her breath. “It’s just that I didn’t realize the stroke had affected her like that.”

“Like what?”

Rosa blinked hard, forbidding any more tears from daring to follow the first one. “Does she have any movement in her arm?” she asked.

“Not much.”

“Will she get it back?”

“Not without proper treatment.”

“What happened to her paintings?”

Dalton’s mouth tightened. “She wanted me to put them in a sack, weigh it down with rocks, and throw it off the end of the wharf.”

“Oh my God. You didn’t do it?”

“Of course not.” For the first time, he seemed to relax a little. His voice softened, as though he’d finally decided she wasn’t the enemy. “Well, it wasn’t like she could walk all that way to check. She doesn’t think she’s ever going to be able to paint again. I keep telling her not to give up. But the truth is, it’ll take time, lots of rehab, and hard work. Even then, she’ll need to beat the odds.”

“Can she walk?”

He nodded. “She’s finding her balance again. Her ankle’s weak, so she needs a brace. And I had to break the bad news that she can’t run any more marathons. You can imagine how upset she was.”

The joke was so unexpected, Rosa let out a surprised noise that was little more than a snort. As active and busy as Tiny had always been, she’d hated sport of any kind. Imagining her wanting to run a marathon was like picturing a fish wanting to climb a mountain.

Tiny had always had a wicked sense of humor. Could Dalton have one too?

“I told her I’d come back and see her again tomorrow,” said Rosa, testing the water. Maybe Dalton wasn’t such an ass-wipe as she’d first thought.

“The therapist isn’t coming tomorrow, so you can stop in anytime. She’s usually got more energy in the morning.”

“Okay.” She motioned toward the reception building. “I’d better get to work.”

He stood aside to let her pass. She could probably call that progress. At least Dalton seemed to have accepted she was going to work here, and didn’t tell her to go home. It wasn’t much to be thankful for, but right now it was all she had.