As the cheers rise and the applause gets louder, Bette leans across the table and hands the check to Jen.

Who is too angry to even look at the envelope. How else could Bette know that $175,000 is her shortfall? Another facet of Casey’s betrayal?

Reset, she thinks. One of Dr. Penelope Parker’s favorite words.

Reset.

Say the Wus did not, in fact, set fire to my restaurant, and Bette never intended to hurt Mae.

Say the threats were ugly and idle, but empty. They were fairly vague.

But she remembers Jimmy Wu’s happily ominous words that day on Empress II, when he thought it was so funny that she mentioned fire and her restaurant together.

The Barrel is my life. My family. I’d set it on fire before I’d sell it to you.

Oh, funny, funny, I say Barrel and you say fire!

So who really brought up the idea of setting fire to her restaurant in the first place, Jen thinks now—she or Jimmy? Could she have misread his words, his cultural compass, or his quirky reactions?

But it’s damned hard for her to accept all that—daughter of a cop, by nature suspicious and doubting. Her father who, come to think of it, judged Jimmy Wu a “creep” based on info from his LBPD friends.

Okay, forget about Jimmy’s guilt or innocence for now, thinks Jen. Before the arson, his pirates had been publicly shamed and challenged by her son. They—and Bette—had been caught at sea, on Casey’s social media vids, illegally mutilating sharks for soup.

Isn’t that enough to justify her intense dislike and distrust of Bette? Especially as a sudden friend of her trusting boy?

Bette Wu’s smile appears hopeful and genuine as Jen looks up at her, tears the envelope in half, and drops the pieces to the table.

35

The Oceano lobby is empty this late. Jen and Casey sit near the fire in heavy silence.

“Mahina’s getting some rest,” says Brock, setting down the drinks. “She’s exhausted.”

Brock looks exhausted, too, from three days at the Flagstaff fire. “Where’s Bette?”

“She’s got a room here somewhere,” says Casey. “Not with me.”

“Your friend and business associate, Casey?” asks Jen. “What are you thinking?”

Casey nods and swallows hard. Takes a sip of orange juice.

“She’s really good at business, Mom. You just gotta realize she didn’t burn down the Barrel. She didn’t hurt Mae. She helped her nutty dad try to buy your restaurant at a really insultingly stupid price. They’re big talkers, Mom. But Bette asked to come here to help me stay relaxed and not have to drive ten hours and have to deal with reservations and all that. Just concentrate on the surfing. Let it flow, man. Let it be. You’ll see her different when you get to know her. But if you can’t or won’t, then I ask you to at least trust me and my judgment. At least be nice to her. She really wanted you to take that money, Mom.”

“What’s her cut as your business associate?” asks Brock.

“We earlier talked about fifteen percent but that’s on hold for now. There’s no money in this for her.”

Jen listens to this, feeling as if her cheeks must be red but the rest of her face white. The red is how much she loves Casey in all his naïve goodness right now; the white is her anger at Bette for conniving her way into Casey’s life. In Jen’s mind, Bette is a fast-talking, sharp-dressing, maybe Hollywood-connected, lowlife smuggler and shark finner, no matter what she’s got Casey believing.

Although, to be fair, thinks Jen, even though I don’t want to be fair—Bette Wu never handled a knife in any of Casey’s postings, never touched a shark.

“I like her,” says Brock. “As a fan of unusual women. Trust? Hmmm … But I wish you’d have taken the money, Mom. That much money would put the Barrel back on the map in no time.”

“She said she’ll get another check if you want, Mom,” says Casey.

“Absolutely not. She can’t buy me. But I guess she’s bought you two.”

“That’s harsh,” says Casey. “She’s a business associate and a friend. Not a slave owner.”

“Heaven help you, Casey,” says Jen. “With Bette Wu’s hands in your pockets. And wherever else they might be.”

“It’s not like that, Mom.”

“You’re a stupido if you don’t think she’ll try,” says Brock.

Casey slumps a little, crosses his arms, and shakes his head. Stares at the floor.

“Bette says I’m smart,” he says quietly. “Not like Fredo in The Godfather.”

“You gotta be realistic about this, bro. You gotta look things right directly in the eye. She might be a good friend and want the best for you. She’s definitely hot. But she’s trying to buy the Barrel. And us, too.”

Casey’s still staring at the floor. “She wants to manage more than just my business. My happiness and my family someday, when I have one. You know, like, the future and stuff.”

“Bro,” says Brock. “The best advice I can give you is to use a condom that Bette Wu hasn’t poked a hole in.”

Casey shrugs. “That’s pretty gross, Brock. To say about her.”

“He’s right,” says Jen.

Who wants to slap Casey’s face.

Instead she comes over and hugs him and tells him she loves him, that he’s going to shred this Monsters contest tomorrow, and she’s going to be there to tow him in and get him to the rescue sled if he needs it, but you won’t need it, because you’re going to tie for first place with Brock and you’ll have to split the money and saw the trophy in half and we’ll put both halves in the lobby of the new Barrel by John’s bronze.

John, she thinks, feeling Casey’s face warm and wet with her tears.

John, whom she had promised to love and protect all those years ago, back when she truly believed she could.

Bette Wu knocks on Jen’s door just after midnight.

Through the peephole, Jen bores in on the composed, pretty face.

And opens the door. “I suppose you have a gun.”

Bette glances down the hallway each way. “In my purse. You should let me in.”

Jen unlatches the chain and closes the door behind Bette, who takes the couch and sets her purse on the coffee table. Jen sits near the little gas fireplace, rippling with flame.

“What do you want?” she asks.