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"Let me carry that for you," Benjy said, reaching for Delia's drink.

"That's okay," said Delia, pulling it away from him. "You have a tendency to fall down around me." She was thinking about how to get Benjy to help her convince Walter he needed an agent ' her. She smiled slightly, unexpectedly tickled as one obvious method came to mind. Benjy smiled back, as they reached what looked like a huge Miccosukee chickie hut, walled in with weathered planks of Dade County pine framing wide windows.

They unlocked the door and went inside. The afternoon sun filled the room with crisscrossing arrows of light that flared out across pictures on every wall. Delia put down her drink and stopped, arms at her sides, a shaft of sunshine picking her out, lighting her up like a model at the end of the runway. She stood still and looked around, surrounded by hundreds of glamorous women and sharply dressed men in fading photographs, most with fading autographs. With a light touch on her elbow, Benjy steered her past a long bar toward one of the oaken captain's chairs gathered around a dozen tables. They sat down.

"Once upon a time," Benjy said, "this was a retreat for the swells, the mavens, the beautiful people before they were called that. They came here to get away from the crowd."

"It looks like they stayed, like this is some kind of weird shrine," Delia said, surveying the walls of photos. "Kind of creepy, if you ask me."

Benjy stood up. "Come here for a second," he said, and walked over to a wall of pictures. Delia followed, and the two of them read Miami's young history in the pictures of its celebrities, famous, infamous and obscure, all united by the time they'd spent in this place. There were gangsters, movie stars, writers, crooners, comedians, politicians and, of course, developers. Al Capone was there. So were Rita Hayworth and Damon Runyon, Perry Como and Jackie Gleason, Harry Truman and Carl Fisher, creator of Miami Beach.

Like their namesakes many years ago, the pictures of the truly famous were sitting next to pictures of locals most people never heard of. Delia walked by an autographed picture of Eddie Arcaro on a winning colt at Gulfstream, also autographed by the two smiling men holding the colt's bridle, Moe and Izzy Fine. She stopped to look at a picture of nameless workmen, sledgehammers and shovels at their sides, smiling for the camera as they took a break from building the railroad, the posh hotels and the places where plain folks lived, all come to find their place in the South Florida sun. Like her.

"This was the room where Miami was divvied up for decades," Benjy said, "where the pea patches were replaced with gleaming piles of rubble to be."

"And now it has to make way for the next gleaming pile," Delia said, smiling and getting to the point.

"You're learning fast."

"By the way," Delia asked, "where are we going?"

"Just a little further," said Benjy. "I promise you it's worth the drive."

"I'll be the judge of that," Delia said with a smile. So they kept going, through canyons of high-rises, until they came to a toy town of tiny motels and apartments on the beach. They were in Hollywood, another place with a purloined name.

"Now that's more like it," Benjy said.

"Like what?" Delia asked.

"Something more peaceful, on a more human scale. There's still lots of places in Florida that look like this, just not down here. And the best is yet to come."

"And when will that be?"

"You'll know it when you see it."

She did. A few blocks north, the strip of land between the Intracoastal and the ocean was too narrow for more than a couple of restaurants, along with a day-cruise gambling boat berthed in the mangroves. The sunset was getting more dramatic, splashing vivid red streaks across the horizon. It lit up everything with a rich russet glow. They could have been hundreds of miles north, driving along a beach that was largely being left alone to live in peace.

"Let's stop for a minute," Benjy suggested.

Delia turned into a wooded parking lot next to the ocean. "I haven't been here before," she said.

"This place is special," said Benjy. "Come take a look."

They walked toward the water on a path bathed in purplish light and shadow, as the sunset played on rows of slender palm trees in the sand.

"What are all these trees doing here?" Delia asked, leaning up against one and taking off her heels.

"Why, they're going to the beach, of course," Benjy said. "Here, let me give you a hand," he said, reaching for hers and holding it unselfconsciously as they walked on.

Delia looked down at Benjy's hand holding hers, wondering whether to pull it away. She decided not to. "I guess the trees strolled over from their tree motel, right?"

"Not exactly," Benjy said, as they walked closer to the water. "They're different from us in many ways. And they only get to choose where they want to be once." He stopped and turned to face her.

"What if they make a mistake?" Delia asked, looking back at him.

"They don't. Trees aren't filled with longing for what they don't have." With a light touch, he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her, softly, as if asking a question. He thought he felt Delia answer, as she let go of her guarded caution for an instant and kissed him back. But she pulled away quickly. "Don't get any ideas," she said with a half smile.