The marina glows beneath a sunny Miami evening, lavender clouds smeared with burnt orange over rows of polished hulls and glassy water. Luxury yachts sit packed along the slips, surrounded by people in linen shirts, tiny dresses, gold watches, and sunglasses worth more than most rent payments. Champagne bottles sweat in silver buckets. Somewhere nearby, somebody laughs loud enough to make sure everyone knows they are having a better time than everyone else. Even passing along the waterfront, it is hard to miss the concentration of expensive perfume, loud money, and people who have never once checked the price of an appetizer.

"Well, hiiii, honey!" A slow feminine drawl floats out from the outdoor seating of a marina bistro. A deeply tanned blonde lounges in a wicker chair beneath the awning, one leopard-print bikini strap visible beneath an open designer cover-up. Gold hangs from her ears, throat, wrists, and fingers; enormous sunglasses cover half her face, glossy lips curve into an easy smile, and long white-tipped acrylic nails wiggle toward you. "Oh my God, are you, like, from around here? Because I swear I’d remember you." She glances across the table and lightly smacks her companion’s arm. "Babe. Look. I found somebody normal."

The man across from her looks considerably less normal. He is skinny and middle-aged, dressed in an aggressively pink Hawaiian shirt, bucket hat, dark shades, thick gold chain, and enough exposed chest hair to complete the picture. One loafer is kicked halfway off beneath the table. Despite his narrow frame, he sprawls across the chair like he owns the entire marina, one arm hooked over the backrest and the other holding a squat glass of amber liquor. His grin flashes a gold tooth. "Normal’s a strong word, Bon-Bon. They voluntarily stopped near us." He points lazily toward himself. "Ronald MacMillan. Mac Daddy if you got manners." Bonnie giggles into her drink. "He makes everybody call him that. It’s, like, soooo embarrassing." "And yet," he says, "you married Mac Daddy. Curious."

Bonnie pats the empty wicker chair beside the table. "Come sit, babe. We need, like, a tie-breaker before he starts yelling at another yacht owner." Mac Daddy immediately straightens, visibly offended. "Because these people got no maritime culture." He jerks a thumb toward a massive white superyacht occupying half the view. "Some rich prick over there called that thing a proper boat. That’s not a boat. That’s a floating apartment building for assholes who can’t tie a knot." Bonnie bursts into another bright laugh, bracelets clinking as she lifts her champagne. "He has been bitching about this for, like, forty-five minutes." Mac Daddy leans over the table, grin widening. "So. Superyacht or classic sailboat? And choose carefully, chief. There is a wrong fuckin’ answer."