O+F

by John Moncure Wetterau

O,

Thank you.

F.

Warmth rushed through Oliver as he stared at her writing. Francesca was answering in kind; she had accepted his valentine. "What do you think about that, my friend?" he asked Verdi. "What do you think about that?" Verdi bumped against his ankle, a sign of high satisfaction. It was good to be home.

Oliver looked around the living room. The mantle was empty without the walnut box. He wished that he had a picture of Francesca to take its place. He unrolled the snakeskin and pinned it vertically to the wall by the steps, admiring the silver and ivory colors and the dark diamonds that had curled around the snake.

He went early to bed and spent a long time looking out at the night and remembering the trip: the gardens and the Japanese restaurant in Portland, Michiko standing by her moss-rock, Diamond Head, The Devil's Churn, his father's face—there had been much to see and few words. What was there to say about these things? Owl had cautioned him more than once: "Listen to what people say, but pay more attention to what they do." What would he do with the treasures of this trip?

Treasure, literally. One thing he could do was to put his father's money to work. He decided to open a stock brokerage account. He needed to get a programming project, so that he wouldn't start spending the money. And he needed to see Francesca. She was more fun to think about than job interviews; he drifted to sleep remembering her on Crescent Beach.

In the morning, he answered two job advertisements that were in the paper and then ate breakfast at Becky's. The day seemed to have started without him—jet lag. The booth where he had first seen Francesca was empty. He imagined her there and felt better, more centered.

He walked to Monument Square and entered one of the big name brokerages. He left quickly, put off by slick advertisements on the walls and expensively dressed men exuding earnestness. Farther along the Square, he found a local firm staffed by a short man with a tired expression. The top of his head shone. Brown graying hair started just above his ears, swept back, and hung loosely over the back of his shirt collar. He was eating a bagel. A grandfather clock stood in one corner.

"I'm thinking about opening an account," Oliver explained.

The man swallowed and raised his coffee mug. "Why?"

"I like your clock." The man gave him a longer look and sipped coffee.

"I bought it at an auction. Never been sorry. Sometimes, you've got to pay for quality; sometimes you get a deal."

"I like auctions," Oliver said.

"My name is Myron Marsh. I've been called, 'Swampy.' I've been called,
'Mellow.' I prefer, 'Myron.' "

"What! No 'Shorty?' '' The corner of Myron's mouth twitched, but he said nothing. "O.K., Myron. I'm Oliver Prescott."

"You live around here, Oliver?"

"State Street, near the bridge."

"You know anything about investing?"

"No."

"What kind of money are you talking about?"

"Seventy-two thousand."

"Not a bad start," Myron said. "We could get some good balance with that." He opened a filing cabinet and handed Oliver a form. "Tell you what," he said. "Why don't you fill this out and come back with a check when you're ready. Then we can talk about where you want to go with this and what we might do."

"Thanks," Oliver said.

"Here's a booklet that explains our fees and general setup."

Oliver went home and read the material. The application provided for joint ownership of the account. An idea formed. He didn't have a will. If he died, his money would go to his mother. She didn't really need it. Why not make Francesca joint owner? Then, if he died, she could use it for herself and her girls. If she needed money for an emergency, it would be there. She wouldn't have to do anything, just sign the form and know that the account existed. She might not like the idea, might be afraid of strings attached. But there weren't any, really—all she had to do was sign the form and forget about it.

The idea made him feel good. He filled out the form with everything but her signature, her mother's maiden name, and her social security number. He called Myron to check about joint ownership. Either owner could control the account, but he would be the primary owner, responsible for taxes. Monthly statements could be sent to each owner. "No need for that," he told Myron, "just one would be enough." They set a time to meet on the following Monday. Oliver was assuming that he would see Francesca Sunday morning on the beach.

On Saturday night, the weather forecast was for light rain and fog. Oliver could barely see the bridge when he woke up. He made a pot of coffee, drank one cup, and saved the rest in a large thermos which he put in his shoulder bag along with two mugs, half a quart of milk, and a manila envelope containing the account application. Forty minutes later, he was sitting on a driftwood log near the spot at the beginning of the beach where he had last met Francesca and where The Early People had waited for the sun.

It was warm for November. The tide was out. The water was gray, stippled and flattened by light rain. The air was fertile and salty. Mist blurred the rocks. A dog barked somewhere beyond the other end of the beach. Francesca appeared suddenly, holding a black umbrella over her head. When Oliver could see her smile, he stood and smiled back.

"You made it," she said coming closer.

"Quite a trip," he said. He wanted to hug her, but jackets and hats and her umbrella made it awkward. "How about some coffee?"

"Coffee? Superb!"

Oliver sat down on the log and poured them each a mug. "Milk?"

"Mmm."

"Say when . . ."

"When."

He handed her the mug. She sat beside him and shifted the umbrella to partially cover him. "I love my valentine."

"Good. My friend, George, is an artist. He showed me how to cast it.
What did you do with it? Not that it's any of my business."

"Hid it." Francesca giggled. "Where did you get the box?"

"Made it."

"I wondered," she said. "It's beautiful. Did you find your father?"

"I did." He told her about Hawaii and meeting his father at The Devil's
Churn in Oregon.

"Dramatic," she said. Her eyes were soft.

"It was. It was the way he wanted it."

"Did you feel that he was your father?"

"Yes. We're different. I'm American, and he's Japanese-American, more Japanese—he lives in Japan. But we were the same underneath—same kind of seriousness or intensity or something."

"What does he do?"

"He's an architect. He was teaching a class at the University of
California, Berkeley, until the end of the year."

"Is he married?"

"Yes. Two children—a boy and a girl, grown."

"Oliver, you have a half brother and a half sister!"

"It's true. I haven't absorbed it yet."

"Did you like him?"

"Yes. He was pretty impressive. Disciplined. Didn't say much. He gave me some money—said you were only as rich as what you give away. What's your mother's maiden name?"

Francesca stared at him. "Boisverte," she said.

"How do you spell it?" She told him and he repeated the letters to make sure that he had them right. "French," he said.

"Mais oui. Maman married Frankie, and here I am."

"They did nice work. You want more coffee?" He refilled their mugs and put away the thermos. "Francesca . . ."

"Yes?"

"You're probably going to think I'm nuts. I hope you won't be mad at me." He took a deep breath. "I'm putting the money my father gave me in a brokerage account. I want you to be joint owner, so that if anything happens to me you'll have the money. Or, if you need some for an emergency—it will be there." Francesca took a swallow of coffee and stared out to sea.

"You're a good one," she said. And then, "I'm married to Conor."

"You wouldn't have to pay any taxes on it. I do that. You wouldn't get statements or anything. It would just be there if you need it. It could be backup for you and the girls, security . . ."

"Independence?" she teased.

"Well—yes, if you want it." The fat was in the fire.

"Jacky said you were a sweetheart."

Oliver's jaw dropped. Francesca laughed. "She said that she checked you out. She had hopes for you, but she said that the two of you were incompatible for the long run."

"Uh—she's right."

"Don't be embarrassed," Francesca said. "How else were you going to find out? Look, I love Jacky, but I wouldn't want to be married to her."

The image of Jacky attempting to intimidate Francesca with a whip made Oliver burst out laughing. "No," he said, sputtering, "no." Francesca gave him a curious look. "Good looking woman, though," he went on. "Not as beautiful as you."

She accepted this without comment. It was a quality Oliver liked in her. Francesca was beautiful. She knew it and didn't make a fuss about it.

"I want the money to have a purpose outside myself," he said. "Seriously—it would help me. It makes me feel better. I'm going to get some work as soon as I can, so that I don't spend it. I have the form right here." He held his bag under the umbrella and pulled out the form. "If I can keep it from getting soaked . . ." He reached into his pocket for a ballpoint pen. "Can I write on your back? I mean, use your back? 'BOISVERTE.'" He said the letters as he wrote them. "What's your social security number?"

She hesitated and then told him. "A very nice number," he said.

"I've always thought so. It will be especially nice if I make it to retirement age."

"All you have to do is sign," Oliver said. "Here." He handed her the pen and swiveled his body so that she could use his back.

"Yi! What am I doing?" The pen moved firmly across his shoulder blade.

"A good thing, that's what you're doing—what we're doing," Oliver said, putting the application in the bag.

"Cute pen," she said.

"It's a space pen—writes upside down or in zero gravity. NASA uses it."

"My father worked for NASA."

"Oh, yeah? What did he do?"

"He was an engineer, called himself a launch pad maintenance man. He and my mom live near Daytona. He's retired."

"You don't have a southern accent."

"I grew up in Brunswick, just down the road from Bowdoin. My dad worked on the base for years. He's from upstate New York."

"And your mother?"

"Local gal. She's gotten used to Florida. I don't know if I could. I mean, you can get used to just about anything; but . . ."

"Nice in January," Oliver said. "I know what you mean. I grew up in
Connecticut." A harder shower passed over them.

"I love the rain," Francesca said.

"Me, too." They sat and finished their coffee, watching the rain and absorbing their conversation.

"Bye, Oliver," Francesca said finally, standing with the umbrella.
"You're going to get wet."

"I won't melt." She smiled quickly, understanding it as he meant, that he would be there for her dependably. She walked back the way she had come. Oliver stayed, enjoying the calm. Francesca had that effect on him. When he was with her, he felt that there was nowhere he needed to go. He was already there, at the center. The world spread around them at greater and greater distances.

Jacky! He felt a stir of affection and shook his head. He should have known she would tell Francesca—the big picture, anyway, if not the details. He hoped Jacky would find someone soon. She wasn't bashful. There was bound to be somebody in Maryland who would love to oblige her. Whoever he was, he was going to get a workout—and good crab cakes. Jacky had been straight with him. Oliver appreciated that. And he'd been straight with her. Maybe that was why he had a warm feeling when he thought of her; there was no residue of guilt or things held back.

He stretched and walked to the main road, taking the track along the rocks and then though the woods. He had left the Jeep in the approach area by the gate-house; the park was officially closed. A piece of paper was folded under one windshield wiper. It had a heart on it, drawn in pencil. When he got home, he taped it over the mantel.

Myron read through the application the next day and tapped his desktop slowly. "The co-owner," he said, "will have full privileges."

"Right."

"If she calls and identifies herself and says, "Myron, sell everything and send me a check," that's what I'll do."

"Right."

"Very good," Myron said dubiously. "Just making sure." He put the application and the check in a folder. "So, how quick do you want to get rich?"

"That's a trick question, I bet," Oliver said.

Myron appraised him again. "It is and it isn't," he said. "Rewards are what you get for taking risk. If you want a big reward right away, you have to take a big risk. Over a longer period, you can take smaller risks—the smaller rewards add up; the smaller losses don't wipe you out. But there's another consideration." He drew a double headed arrow on the top of a yellow pad. "People have different senses of time."

Myron darkened each arrowhead. "Some live for the future; some live in the moment; some—most—are in the middle. It's a natural thing. As far as risk/reward goes, we can keep a given balance in any time-horizon. We can be risk-adverse, say, short-term or long-term." Myron underlined the arrow.

"What we don't want to do is mix up the two. Short—term and long-term investments are different. Not only are the investments themselves different, but someone who is patient and looks far ahead won't be happy with in-and-out activity. Someone who is action-oriented, who is used to seeing results right away, won't wait years for a company to develop or for interest rates to drop. You see what I'm getting at?"

"I do," Oliver said. "It's interesting. I guess I'm more toward the patient end. Risk? I don't mind risk. But I wouldn't want to lose more than half. It's important to me that half, anyway, always be there." Myron wrote a few words on the pad.

"There are advantages to the patient approach," he said. "Taxes are lower if you hold securities long term. You can buy into promising companies cheaply—if you can give them a few years to grow."

"I like that," Oliver said. Myron made another note.

"How about if I get you started, make the first buys?"

"Sounds good."

"As time goes on and you get into it, you may want to take a more active part in making the decisions. We'll talk as we go along."

"O.K."

"You'll get a monthly statement."

"Just one—to me," Oliver interrupted.

"Yes," Myron added to his notes. "One statement. Call me or drop by any time."

"O.K. Thank you." Oliver prepared to leave. "When do we start making money?"

"Soon as the check clears," Myron said.

Should be interesting, Oliver thought, walking home. Myron was a realist. He didn't seem like someone who would rip you off or make hurried decisions. Porter came out the front door just as Oliver turned in from the sidewalk.

"Hey Porter, thanks for taking care of Verdi. I haven't seen you since
I got back."

"No problem. It was a help, actually. And, it gave me a chance to get to know Arlen better." Porter beamed.

Oliver didn't want to hear any confidences. "How's the baking going?"

"Solid." Porter looked amused at Oliver's unease. "Scones are hot this year—can't make enough of them. Later, Slugger." He punched Oliver lightly on the arm and unlocked a sleek black Toyota. Oliver watched him drive away. Porter was like a character in a comic strip; a six foot scone in a thought balloon hovered over his car.

Oliver collected his mail. Gifford Sims of The First Fundamentalist Hospital was interested in talking with him. There were a couple of bills. A Thanksgiving invitation from Amanda. "Mother and Paul are coming. Heather has been asking about you."

12.

Sunday morning was cold and windy. Oliver waited at the beach, walking back and forth in front of the driftwood log. After half an hour, he poured a cup of coffee from the thermos. Steam curled up and was blown away. He had an interview the following day at the Fundamentalist hospital; he ought to iron a shirt. Wear a tie? Francesca appeared, walking with long strides.

"Hi," she said.

"Just in time," he said, holding his cup in the air. "I was going to drink yours. What's the matter?"

"Conor and I are having trouble. God, that smells good!" Oliver handed her a cup. "Mmm—nice and hot."

"I'm sorry," Oliver said.

"I don't want to bother you about it . . ."

"It's no bother."

"Conor didn't get home until very late. I had trouble waking him up to watch the girls. I probably shouldn't have come."

"Do you want to go back? I'll walk with you to the gate-house."

"O.K. Just a second. Let's enjoy this."

Oliver refilled his cup. "Getting nippy," he said.

"Snow anytime," Francesca said. She looked at him and smiled—something to share, their snow. "Conor's not been happy with me. He plays around. It's a mess."

"Oh."

"I don't know what to do. We've been talking about making a change, spending the winter in Costa Rica. He says that his job isn't going anywhere; he wants a break to decide what to do next."

"Oh." Oliver tried for a bright side. "You could practice your Spanish."

"We could argue in Spanish," she said.

"What's his problem? Not that it's any of my business."

"I don't know. Mommy, I suppose. Conor tends to think that the world owes him a living. Conor's world is 95% female. He's cute and needy and out-front about it; there's always some woman ready to give him what he wants."

"Tough life," Oliver said.

"He's not a happy man," she said, "at least, never for long. He uses that, too—the wounded Conor. Well, somebody tried to save him last night."

"Pretty hard on you," Oliver said.

"I married him," she said. "I'd divorce him tomorrow, but it isn't just me I have to think about."

"Damn," Oliver said. "I'd marry you the day after."

"Thank you. Would you promise to make me a cup of coffee like this first thing in the morning—for the rest of my life?"

"Or my life," Oliver said.

"Oh!" There was a tear in Francesca's eye. He thought she was going to hug him, but she turned and looked toward the water. "I've got to finish one thing before I start another," she said. "I don't think there's much point to it, but I've got to try. I'm going to go with him on this trip."

"I'll see you in the spring, then—I hope," Oliver said. "I opened that account, by the way. I don't have the number yet, but you don't need it. If you get stuck for money, call Myron Marsh at Marsh and Cooley and tell him who you are. It would probably take a couple of days, though."

"Myron Marsh . . ."

"He has an office on Monument Square."

"O.K. Let's go," she said.

They walked back side by side. "I like your Jeep," Francesca said when they reached the main road.

"Tried and true," Oliver said. "Room for you and the girls." She did hug him then, squeezing tightly against him. He felt her sob twice. His legs were set like granite posts. He could have held her forever. She stepped back. "Francesca," he started, but she shook her head, no, and put one hand up to his cheek. Her thumb rested across his lips and then withdrew. She seemed to be memorizing his face.

"Bye," she said.

"Bye." She turned and walked away. Oliver sighed heavily, got into the Jeep, and drove in the other direction. His feelings were careening around, but his mind was clear. He and Francesca were together, even though they were apart. What he wanted, how beautiful she was, what might happen—the rush of his feelings did not alter that fact.

He drove aimlessly, passed the mall, and headed north. In Yarmouth, he stopped for breakfast at the Calendar Islands Motel on Route 1. Two dining rooms were filled with elderly couples and the families of L. L. Bean executives. He signed for a table and waited in line. It was pleasant to stand there as though nothing had just happened. He had gotten up in his restored cape with the large addition, fed his golden retriever, and driven three miles for breakfast the way he did every Sunday. He had a slight hangover and a secure future. He was on board.

It really wouldn't be so bad, he thought—to be on board. What the hell, even a tie . . . The hostess led him to a sunny table. He ate a large plate of blueberry pancakes with a side of bacon, feeling quite the citizen, practically married, a man with responsibilities.

But—you don't know her. This wasn't true, he decided. He knew her where it mattered—in her heart. Boisverte, he knew her maiden name. What difference did it make, where she went to school or what her brother was like? Didn't she say she had a brother? Conor would never change. Why wouldn't she leave him? She would—when she was ready. He, Oliver, would be there. The waitress swished away. Nice legs, he registered. Too young, though. You can't have them all, he told himself as she disappeared into the kitchen.

When he got home, he ironed a blue oxford-cloth shirt and a pair of dress chinos. He washed the dishes and turned on the TV, mostly to avoid the temptation to go to Deweys. The Patriots lost in the fourth quarter.

The next morning Oliver was on the road in time to stop for a bagel. He made an effort to keep crumbs off his shirt and tie. He was confident that he could handle any software needs that the hospital might have; it was the group dynamic that put him on the defensive. He felt false when he made the little gestures required to fit in. He knew how, but he also knew that eventually he would be unmasked and auto-ejected from the group like a splinter from its hand. Maybe the First Fundamentalists wouldn't be so bad. Here I come, he thought. Love your neighbor. Forgive him his independence. Let's get this over with.

Gifford Sims was large. He wore a dark suit made from a lasting synthetic material. His black hair was carefully combed; his face was square and unsmiling. "Come in," he said, indicating a chair where Oliver was to sit. He rubbed his chin once and gazed out his office window at the carefully tended parking lot. He was not in a hurry to speak, but he did not seem put off by Oliver. That was one thing about being short—you didn't threaten people.

"We had someone in Boston doing the work," he said finally. "Expensive."

"Ah," Oliver said.

"She worked about twenty hours a week, sometimes more."

"I see," Oliver said.

"We don't work on Saturdays unless we have to—babies don't always fit into our schedule." Gifford swiveled from the window and watched Oliver. Hard to blame them, Oliver started to say, but he smiled instead, acknowledging the joke. It was a joke, he was pretty sure, although it was hard to tell from Gifford's expression.

"It appears from your experience that you could handle the work. Are these references current?"

"Yes, they are."

"I have no further questions." Silence. Gifford Sims, conversationalist. Oliver stood.

"Thank you for taking the time. Lovely place . . ." He waved his arm, vaguely including the hospital and the parking lot. "Well, goodbye, Mr. Sims."

"Goodbye."

Oliver walked toward the main entrance. A young woman in the hall looked at him seriously. Her hair was blonde, the color of freshly planed maple. She had dark eyes and a compact graceful body. Oliver's stomach tightened; he straightened and nodded as he passed. At the front door, he said, "So long," to the receptionist, a middle-aged redhead.

"Y'all come back, now!" Oliver stopped.

"Where you from?"

"Georgia, honey."

"Good deal," Oliver said, "the sun just came out." The hospital, Gifford Sims notwithstanding, had a light atmosphere. Aside from a large painting of Jesus near the entrance, the tone was functional and non-denominational. A sign announced that two babies had been born overnight. The hospital was known for its high-quality birthing. I could work here, he thought. But he had no idea whether he'd get the job. Gifford Sims hadn't exactly been blown over. On the other hand, there weren't many people around who could step right in and take over. Most good programmers already had jobs or would want full-time work.

Oliver drove home. In the mail, there was a large flat package from a bookstore and a letter from Myron saying that the account was open. He wrote the number on a card and put it in his wallet in case he should see Francesca. He decided not to send her a letter; she had her hands full. If she needed cash, she knew how to get it. The arrangement gave him a warm feeling when he thought about it. He was useful to her, even if she never touched the money.

There was a gift note inside the package: "This is the guy I was telling you about. Home in one month. Muni." The book was by George Nakashima, The Soul of a Tree. Oliver was immediately attracted to the photographs of walnut, cherry, and chestnut tables. The tops were made from wide slabs that had been left in their natural contours. Where the wood had separated as it dried, Nakashima had inlaid butterfly keys to prevent the splits from widening. The keys were made of contrasting woods—rosewood and oak. Their butterfly or bow tie shapes became design elements, quasi-geometric signatures. Oliver was fascinated.

Later, in Deweys, he tried to explain to Mark. "The tables knock me out. I mean, sure, it's hard to go wrong with a great piece of walnut. The guy must have gotten every trophy tree in Pennsylvania. But what I love is the way he treated splits. He repaired them with these butterfly keys." Oliver made a quick drawing and showed it to Mark. "The keys improve the look. They add the human touch, so that it isn't only a beautiful piece of wood—it's a beautiful piece made even better. He turns a flaw into a strength by acknowledging it, working with it instead of trying to hide it."

"Righteous," Mark said. "I want one."

"They're all in collections, now. The guy is famous," Oliver said. "I think that his daughter is carrying on the tradition."

"Must be nice to make something that lasts," Mark said.

"You've got enough money to make things," Oliver said. "You've got an art degree, right?"

"Yeah, I can draw. But there's no money in it."

"Why can't you do both?"

"I try sometimes, but it's hard to get into it. If I make a good drawing or painting, then what—I've got to frame it and beg some gallery owner to sell it for fifty percent of not much? Frig that. It's not like I'm a frustrated genius."

"Just frustrated," Oliver said.

"Look who's talking. Maybe you ought to forget programming and set up a cabinet shop."

"Maybe," Oliver said.

"Speaking of frustrated," Mark said, "how are the ladies?"

"Not bad," Oliver said. "I'm in love."

"Oh, no!"

"It's complicated," Oliver said. "Remember Francesca?"

"Big trouble."

"Yeah, I guess. She's still with her husband, but maybe not for long.
He's a jerk."

"A bill-paying jerk."

"He's not right for her."

"And you are?" Mark set his pint on the bar.

"I am—or could be—if she wanted."

"So what are you going to do, put your life on hold?"

"I'm going to work, save some money."

"No indoor sports?"

"Oh, that," Oliver said. "I don't know."

Mark shook his head. "Well, love is one thing, but I'd keep in practice if I were you."

"Maybe I'll buy a new sweater."

"Now you're talking. What was his name again? George . . ."

"Nakashima."

"The man!" Mark drank. "So how did you hear about him?"

"My father sent me the book I was telling you about."

"You never told me about your father." Oliver's explanation took them through another pint.

"Something else," Mark said. "You're lucky. My father was a drunk—took off when I was pretty young. He was hard on my mom."

"Do you ever see him?"

"No. She heard that he died a few years ago."

"Too bad," Oliver said.

"I don't know what his problem was," Mark said. "My mom said that he had a bad time in the Korean War. But . . ."

"How's your mom doing?"

"Fine. She's got a boyfriend with a bike. They tool around Albuquerque, have a good time."

"Love it! Look, I'm out of here."

"See you," Mark said.

Oliver walked home thinking that Mark seemed more vulnerable than usual. Everybody's got a story. Everybody's got some kind of problem. It started raining. He was wet through when he got home.

"Soaked, Verdi," he said. He changed into dry clothes and considered dinner. Instant red beans and rice? The doorbell rang. He went down the stairs and opened the door to the street. Jennifer Lindenthwaite was standing there, dripping.

"Hi, Oliver."

"Jennifer!"

"Aren't you going to ask me in?"

"Sure. Come in and dry off. I got soaked, too. Just got home." He led her upstairs and into the apartment. "What's happening?"

"Oh, nothing," she said. "Rupert threw me out . . . I'm pregnant."

13.

"Gaaaagh . . . Jennifer, that's terrible! That's great. I mean—here's a towel." Oliver whipped in and out of the bathroom and handed her a maroon towel. "Do you want to take a shower? How about a cup of tea?"

"Tea would be lovely. I will take a shower." She closed the bathroom door behind her, and Oliver rushed to fill the tea kettle. The shower started. Milk? Sugar? Honey?

"Verdi," he called, "Jennifer is here for tea." The words echoed. Verdi was nowhere to be seen; probably he had taken refuge upstairs. Oliver paced back and forth from the stove to the fireplace. Why had she come to him? He felt the future looming, threatening to sweep away the controlled life that he complained about but that suddenly seemed more attractive.

The shower stopped. Jennifer stepped out a few minutes later wearing his Navy blue bathrobe. She was rosy cheeked and much recovered.

"Uh, how do you like your tea?"

"Do you have any chamomile?"

"Umm, no. I should get some herb tea. All I have is English Breakfast."

"Oh, that's fine. Just a little milk, thanks." She sat next to the fireplace and looked around the apartment while Oliver fixed the tea.

"I don't know," he said, handing her a mug. "Whiskey might be a better idea." Jennifer took a sip and sighed.

"That's so good. I forgot how nice your apartment is."

"It's large enough," Oliver said. "Walking distance from Deweys—I like that. So, what happened? You look great."

"I feel great. I'm just starting to show a little—getting into the fifth month." Oliver counted backwards. "What happened is that Rupert freaked out when I told him I was pregnant. He became—I don't know—distant. I thought he was just nervous and would get used to it, but he got more and more uptight. I couldn't take it anymore." She drank her tea and sighed again.

"So today, I . . . I said to him: 'Look, Rupert, what is the matter? We're going to have a baby. What is wrong with you?' I guess I should have been more diplomatic. You know—said something like: 'Rupert, I need your affection; I'm feeling all alone here.' But I didn't feel diplomatic. I was mad as hell, actually."

Owl's words echoed: "Anger is the outer face of fear."

"Scared," Oliver said.

Jennifer looked at him. "Maybe so," she said. "I thought we had a family. I thought we were all set to go."

"Well, sure," Oliver said.

"'So,' Rupert said, 'who's the father?'

"'What do you mean?' I said.

"'It's not me,' Rupert said. I was shocked. Anyway, it came out that he has a very low sperm count. He knew it all the time and never told me. I told him that you and I had a one time thing last summer, and he freaked out.

"'I'm not paying for his kid, bla, bla, bla.'

"I practically begged: 'Couldn't it be like we adopted him—or her?'

"'It's his problem,' he said. He called my baby a problem. How could he love me if my baby is a problem?"

"Good question," Oliver said. "Jesus, Jennifer."

She put down her tea and held her arms out to him. "Come feel," she said. She loosened the bathrobe and guided Oliver's hand to her belly, warm and taut.

"Amazing!" Oliver said.

"I'm still getting used to it," she said. "I'm over the morning sickness."

Oliver withdrew his hand slowly and straightened. "What are you going to do?"

"Tonight?"

"Well, for starters . . ."

"I don't know. I just wanted to see you, to tell you. You weren't here when I got home. I couldn't find a parking place anywhere close." Her voice trailed off. "I've got a credit card; I can stay at the Holiday Inn."

"No way," Oliver said. "You might as well stay here. Your clothes are all wet." A relieved smile brightened her face.

"Thank you, Oliver."

"Music," he said. He was hearing hearing strains from La Traviata in his mind. He wanted to play the opera, but he was afraid Jennifer would find it too heavy. He played a tape of Native American flute melodies echoing down a canyon. Soothing stuff.

"Oh, I love this music," she said.

"Carlos Nakai," Oliver said. "Are you hungry?" He was newly concerned. There were two of her. Check that—one of her and one of them, a new one. Jennifer looked pleased.

"I've been so upset, it's hard to tell. I think so, actually."

"I have some red beans and rice mix—no canyon greens, though." She looked puzzled. He explained, "I was thinking of the music—what would go with the rice and beans and the music—veggies from a canyon."

"You're so imaginative, Oliver."

"Frozen peas, best I can do." He waved the bag in the air. They ate and watched the news. Oliver slid a clean pillow case on the extra pillow and put a lamp on the other side of the bed. Seduction scenes were easier. They happened or they didn't in a great rush. Jennifer couldn't find a book that she wanted to read. She took a copy of Wooden Boat Magazine upstairs, and Oliver followed her awkwardly.

They lay side by side while she paged through the magazine. "I like this one." She pointed out a 32 footer at anchor in Penobscot Bay. The builder and his wife were enjoying cocktails. A golden retriever was slumped near the bow, his head between his paws.

"Nice," Oliver said. "I wonder if Verdi would like it. Remember Verdi, my cat? Verdi, where are you anyway?"

"I haven't seen him since I got here," Jennifer said.

"He's hiding. Anti-social. He'll come out when he's hungry."

"I'm not hungry now," Jennifer said, putting down Wooden Boat. "That was a good dinner. Thanks for taking care of me."

"You're welcome." Oliver turned out his light.

"Nighty night," she said and rolled to her side. The comforter went with her. She switched off her light and snuggled back against him. He pulled the comforter back over him and brushed her hip with his hand.

"I'm glad you came," he said.

"Don't be a stranger," she said, settling closer. Her body was warm and self-contained. He patted her in response and said nothing. A baby? He lay there as Jennifer fell asleep. Her breathing was steady and unhurried. There was a lot to figure out. In the morning . . . He'd figure out what to do in the morning.

He awoke to the smell of coffee and the sound of Jennifer climbing the steps. "Here you are, Sleepy." She put a mug and a small glass down near his head. "Milk in here. You don't use sugar, do you? I don't remember you taking sugar."

"Mmmughh. No. Thanks."

"I'll be right back." She returned with another cup and sat beside him, leaning back on a pillow propped against the wall.

"Good," Oliver said, balancing the mug on his chest.

"Do you like it strong?"

"Yes," he said. "I mean—while you're at it. I usually buy a dark roast."

"That's what I like," Jennifer said. "Organic." She drank and put down her mug. "Do you think I'm awful?"

"Huh? No. Why should I?"

"Well, being a loose woman and all that. And then barging in without any warning."

"What else were you going to do?"

"I'm not awful?" She smiled and turned closer.

"Of course not."

"You're not mad at me?" Oliver shook his head. "Well—could I have a little hug?" She moved down and opened her arms. The bathrobe fell open. Oliver put down his mug. He rolled over, partially covering her, his arms around her. "I won't break," she said and drew him closer. "Oh, Oliver . . ." She was deep chested with high flat breasts that were beginning to swell. He fit his face over her shoulder, and she hugged him tightly. "Oh." She moved her hands down his back and under his shorts, pulling him to her. Oliver's thoughts skidded away.

"Jennifer," he breathed in her ear. "Jennifer?"

"God," she said. "Do something." She pushed his shorts down and reached around for his cock. As he entered her, she quivered and pressed against every part of him. "Oh! It's been forever," she said. "Oh!" She wanted him on her. She wanted him to come, to fill her up, to take his due. Oliver became a lord riding his finest horse, his property, his right.

"God," she said an hour later when he woke up again. "Rupert never made love to me like that."

"Yumm," Oliver said. He was in a pleasant haze. "I think . . ."

She waited. "Yes?"

"I think we should have breakfast."

"Definitely."

"I don't have anything—how about Becky's?"

Oliver was first in the bathroom. He was looking out over the street, waiting for Jennifer, when Verdi bumped his ankle. "There you are! Where have you been? Under the couch?" Verdi ran expectantly into the kitchen. "You shall have a mighty breakfast."

Verdi gobbled his food and stood by the door. Oliver let him out. The clouds were low and dark; a three day rain was settling in. Verdi slunk around the corner of the house, and Oliver went back upstairs.

"All dry," Jennifer said, brushing a hand over her skirt.

"Here's a hat, if you want it. Could rain any time. We'd better drive.
Hey, you look good in a Mariner's hat."

"I like hockey," she said. "Not the fighting, the skating. They are such great skaters! My father used to take me to Bruins games. My car or yours?"

"Doesn't matter. Mine's closer."

"I love Jeeps," she said, getting in. As they turned down Park Street, Oliver began to be troubled. When he parked at Becky's, he realized that he was worrying about Francesca. He imagined her face, calm and questioning. What if she were there? He took a deep breath, pulled open the front door, and walked in. No Francesca. Good—one problem put off for another time.

He chose a table at the far end of the diner and sat facing the wall.
Jennifer made herself comfortable and surveyed the crowd.

"I like it here," she said. "I don't know why I don't come here more often."

"Good place," Oliver said. Jennifer ordered a fruit bowl with granola and yogurt. He asked for bacon and eggs, homefries with green peppers and onions, and Texas toast. "Cruise all day on this," he said when the waitress delivered. He took a bite of bacon. They couldn't put off the conversation forever. "So—my baby, huh?"

Jennifer smiled. "Your baby. You're the man."

"I'll be damned." He found himself grinning.

"You don't look unhappy—to be a daddy." It was a question.

"Well, I'm not." He was getting used to the idea, feeling a bit proud.

"I like this fruit," she said.

"What do you think we should do?" As the words came out of his mouth, Oliver knew that he had crossed a line. The line had been crossed already—she was going to have his, their, baby—but he hadn't admitted it. We.

She looked at him for a moment and dropped her eyes. She poked around in her fruit with her spoon. "We could be happy," she said quietly.

"We'll need a crib or something," Oliver said.

A tear splashed on Jennifer's fruit bowl. "Yes. Yes, a crib. And a baby blanket."

"A car seat," Oliver said solemnly. Jennifer wiped her face clean.

"A car seat." She giggled. "Apple pie. Do you like apple pie?"

"You're kidding," Oliver said. "Of course."

"I make good apple pie," she said.

"What about Rupert?"

"Rupert is history."

"But you're married."

"Not for long, Sweetums. He can't wait to get rid of me and have his precious space back." Oliver thought of his apartment and felt a small pang. "It's not even his house; his parents let him have it when they moved to Hilton Head. Everything in it, practically, was theirs. I couldn't get rid of any of it. God, I hated those chairs."

"My place is big enough," Oliver said.

"Your place is wonderful," she said. "For now, anyway. Is there a washing machine?"

"Around the back—there's a utility room. Damn!"

"What's the matter?"

"Thanksgiving. I'm supposed to go to my sister's."

Jennifer lifted her spoon triumphantly. "No more Hilton Head! That's where Rupert and I were going. Oh, how wonderful!" She lowered her spoon. "The beach is nice, but Rupert's mother—what a trip."

"Wait 'til you meet my sister." Jennifer's face fell. "Just kidding,"
Oliver said. "To hell with it. Why don't we have our own Thanksgiving?"

"Would they be upset?"

"Not really. I can go another time—maybe over the holidays. We don't get along all that well, but I like her daughter, Heather. I like being 'Uncle Ollie.' "

"Already, I'm a disruptive influence," Jennifer said.

"We could have a good time," Oliver said. "They're going to roast a turkey at Deweys."

"I could make some pies."

"Solid. I'll call Amanda when we get home."

"I'll go get my clothes." She looked at him for confirmation.

Oliver nodded. It was a done deal. "Do you want me to go with you?"

"No. It will be easier if I just go."

"O.K. I'll get some food."

Later, in Shop 'N Save, Oliver marveled at how easy it was to start living with someone. He made reasonable guesses at what Jennifer might like to eat. He remembered chamomile tea. I was married once, he reminded himself. I know how to do this. A baby? That seemed unreal. Yet he had felt it, secure and growing. Probably, Jennifer shouldn't drink too much. He bought a bottle of Merlot and a six pack of ale. He bought organic corn chips made with what he thought was the good kind of fat. She said that she wanted to make pies. Better leave that stuff to her, he thought. We can get baking dishes at The Whip and Spoon on Commercial Street. It would be nice if that programming work came through. He should follow up with Gifford Sims. Jennifer was still working. She could help with the bills.

He made two trips up the stairs with armloads of groceries. Porter's car was parked in front. It had been there often, lately. Oliver wondered if he had moved in. "The house is filling up, Verdi." He put away the food, listening to Van Morrison and The Chieftains. His eye caught the heart that Francesca had drawn—probably not a good idea to leave it there. He peeled the tape from the wall, folded the heart carefully, and put it with the Marsh and Cooley account information in a brown manila envelope. Something told him to keep the account and Francesca to himself. If he could put Francesca in a separate place, keep her from Jennifer, he wouldn't have to choose between them. He was uneasy about this, but he didn't know what else to do. He had a plastic filing box where he kept his income tax information returns. He slid the envelope into the folder for the oldest year, closed the box, and put it in a corner of the closet.

"I'm home, Handsome!" Oliver trotted downstairs and took a load of clothes from Jennifer.

"I'll put them on the couch for now," he said. "I'll make some shelves or something. How did it go?"

"Fantastic. Rupert was just leaving when I got there. I told him I was moving out and he hardly changed expression. I told him I'd have my stuff out by tomorrow night."

"You don't fool around."

"Only with you." Jennifer hugged him and stepped away. "More in the car," she said happily. They made several trips. "This is most of it. The summer clothes are put away; I'll get them tomorrow. And the sheets and towels I bought—I'm damned if Rupert's going to get those."

"Right," Oliver said. "You should park where the Jeep is, behind the house. The next time I go out, I'll park on the street when I come back. There's only one space with the apartment."

"Oh, I'm driving you out."

"No problem. When you get to nine months, you shouldn't be looking around for parking."

"There's my cross country skis and my bike . . ."

"We can put those in the basement. I have a storage area down there."

"It's so cozy here." Jennifer was glowing.

"I bought some chamomile tea."

"Oliver, you're the perfect man—my perfect man—my PM, my Prime
Minister."

"Does that mean you want some?"

"It would be wonderful."

Oliver made tea, thinking that Jennifer had a lot of stuff. Shelves were a necessity. There were two bare walls upstairs. He could buy pine and use the two pieces of walnut for the top shelves. Maybe not. Save the walnut for something else.

"Oh God, the books!" Jennifer said.

"Huh?"

"I have a lot of books."

"More shelves," Oliver said. "I'll help you with the books."

"We'll need boxes."

"I'll get some tomorrow at the U-Haul place."

"Rupert will be gone after nine."

"I don't care," Oliver said.

"It just makes things smoother," she said.

By late afternoon the next day, they had carried the last load into the apartment. The living room was full of boxes. They sat at the kitchen table and made plans. Jennifer was going to work in the morning, the day before Thanksgiving. Oliver was going to make shelves and then move his tools down to the basement. They could use his workbench to hold the additional kitchen stuff. Jennifer had a whole set of dishes she had bought, refusing to use the ones that had belonged to Rupert's parents.

Gifford Sims called and asked if Oliver could start the following Monday. Oliver told Gifford that he'd be there bright and early. Jennifer bought a bushel of apples and another baking dish. By noon on Thanksgiving Day, most of the shelves were built and filled. The bed was remade with tan sheets that were bordered with blooming roses. Verdi was calming down, and the rain had stopped. The apartment smelled of pie. Boxes of books were stacked high in one corner of the living room. Not much space left, Oliver thought, but much more homey.

"So—Deweys later?" he asked.

"The pies are ready," Jennifer said. "I hope it won't be too smoky."

"We don't have to stay long," Oliver said.

Jennifer stood. "Nap time," she said. Oliver watched her hips swing easily around the corner of the steps. He thought of laying out the remaining shelves, yawned, and followed her upstairs.

14.

It was cold and crisp, nearly dark. A neon Guinness sign glowed through a window by the door to Deweys. Oliver shifted the box of pies to one arm and hugged Jennifer with the other. He had a momentary desire to go home and keep the news to themselves.

"Here we go," he said, opening the door. Music, warmth and the smell of ale and cigarettes poured out. Jennifer stepped in ahead of him. They stood for a moment, adjusting to the light.

"Olive Oil!"

"Hey, George. Jennifer, this is George."

"Hello, George. What should we do with the pies, Oliver?"

"I'll ask Sam."

The bartender pointed at a table pushed against one wall. "The bird is going over there—any time now." Oliver put three pies on the table and stashed the empty box underneath. He ordered a pint of Guinness for himself and a half for Jennifer.

"Prescribed for young mothers," he said, handing it to her and taking her coat. George stared at Jennifer's stomach.

"Due in April," she said.

"Fatherhood," Oliver said, setting the record straight and sipping his pint.

"Jesus, Oliver . . . I've been making sculptures; you've been making the real thing."

"It sort of makes itself," Jennifer said.

"Boy or girl?"

"Good question," Oliver said.

"We could find out, but I don't really want to," Jennifer said. "Mmmm." She made a face. "This what-do-you-call-it takes a little getting used to."

"Guinness," Oliver said. "Stout."

"Guinness is a kind of stout," George said. "Some stouts are sweeter; some are a little lighter."

"One thing about stout," Oliver said, "it's hard to drink too much of it. You get full first. Looks like most of the regulars are here. Where's Richard?"

"O'Grady? New York. He goes to his sister's every year." George's eyes went back to Jennifer. She was wearing a long sleeved turquoise jersey with a revealing scoop neck. The jersey hugged her breasts and then curved slightly out and back into dark slacks. "Athletic momma," George said.

"That's a title," Oliver said. "You just got sculpted or something."

"Painted," George said.

"What do you know about painting?" Mark Barnes had drifted next to them.

"Hey, Mark," Oliver said. He introduced Jennifer.

"I've seen you somewhere," Jennifer said to Mark.

"Climbing out a bedroom window," George said.

"Was that it?" Jennifer smiled.

"Couldn't have been recently," Mark said.

Sandy staggered into the room, carrying a huge turkey in a roasting pan. She lowered it to the table as the regulars cheered. Sandy had worked in Deweys for years. She was popular—red-cheeked, oversized, hard-drinking, and tolerant. Another woman brought paper plates, plastic utensils, and a carving set. "Go for it," Sandy said.

"Where's the broccoli? " someone called. There was a chorus of boos.

Sandy and her helper made another trip to the kitchen, returning with garlic bread and an oversized bowl of salad. The group took turns hacking at the turkey. George and Mark argued about Giacometti.

George maintained that Giacometti was better than Picasso. Mark would have none of it. "All that angst! He never met a color he didn't like—cuz the color was always black. My God! I mean, for an Italian!"

"He was Swiss," Jennifer said.

"That explains it," Mark said.

"I love you," George said.

"I took Modern Art at Bowdoin," Jennifer said. "I did a paper on
Alberto Giacometti."

"My God," George said, "Bowdoin? They let you out of the
Impressionists?"

"Oh, yes," Jennifer said. "Giacometti was very good. Cute, too."

"I knew it," Mark said. "Cute."

"How about some turkey?" Oliver suggested.

Bringing the pies turned out to be a good idea; they disappeared quickly. Sam presented Jennifer with a pint on the house. She was treated like a queen by many of the regulars—misty-eyed about motherhood as long as they didn't have to deal with it. Two hours later, she began to yawn. Oliver collected the empty pie dishes, and they drove home, fortified against the cold, pleased to have been accepted as a couple for the first time.

"I like your friends," Jennifer said on the way home. She rubbed her eyes. "It was smoky in there."

"We should have left a little sooner, I guess," Oliver said. "How's
Junior?"

"No complaints."

"That was our coming-out party," Oliver said.

"Yep—we're an item now," Jennifer said, patting him on the knee.

The next day, Jennifer came home with a booklet on how to get a Maine divorce. "Great news," she said, "two or three months and it's over. I called Rupert. He was feeling guilty and said he'd sign whatever. It's pretty simple, really. We don't own much in common."

"That's how it was with Charlotte. We had the house together, but she got some money from her parents and bought me out. Wasn't all that much equity, anyway."

"Where was your house?"

"Peaks Island."

"Oooh," Jennifer said, "that must have been nice."

"It wasn't bad . . . I like the ferries, but they get to be a pain."

"I think we should stay right here until the baby is born," Jennifer said.

"Uh, yeah." Doing anything else had never crossed Oliver's mind.

"But, afterwards, I think we should be looking for a place with more room—don't you?"

Oliver rubbed his forehead. "I guess," he said. "I hadn't thought that far ahead."

"April 24th, the big day," Jennifer said.

"Spring," Oliver said.

"I should be able to work until then. I get three months maternity leave."

"Money," Oliver said. "We'll see how the hospital gig works out. Hard to tell."

"Oliver, let's not worry about anything. Let's just enjoy it. God, I'm so glad I'm not at Hilton Head!"

"We've got our own beaches," Oliver said and was immediately sorry as he imagined Francesca walking toward him.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing," he said.

"It has happened fast," she said sympathetically. "Let me fix you some tea." It wasn't such a bad thing to be fussed over, he thought.

They stayed around the apartment most of the weekend. On Sunday morning, Oliver woke up before Jennifer. It was snowing lightly. He thought of getting out of bed quietly and taking coffee to Crescent Beach. Would Francesca be there? Would she miss him if he didn't go? If he did go, how could he explain to Jennifer where he'd been? He wanted to share the new developments with Francesca, but he was afraid of hurting her. Maybe it was better to let it be for a while. Maybe Francesca wouldn't be there. Maybe she was already on a warm beach in Costa Rica, not a snowy one in Cape Elizabeth.

He got up, made coffee, and turned on the radio. The public station was playing a Bach cantata. Oliver repressed a feeling of disloyalty as he took the coffee upstairs. "Love the one you're with, " he repeated to himself from The Rolling Stones.

Jennifer hunched herself up on the pillows and accepted a mug with both hands. "Mmmm," she said, sipping. "Have to do it."

"Do what?"

"Call Mother."

"Ah," Oliver said, "me too."

"She'll be fine once she gets used to it."

"You mean, used to me."

"Yes, Silly. She's already excited about the baby."

"Maybe we should drive down."

"Yes, but I'd better go first. Then we'll go together—maybe at
Christmas."

"O.K.," Oliver said.

"Daddy won't care; he never liked Rupert."

"Good man."

Oliver took a long shower, standing under hot water, hearing snatches of Jennifer's voice as she talked on the phone. He dried himself with one of her thick white towels and received a vigorous hug when he stepped into the kitchen. "She freaked out when I explained, but the worst is over," Jennifer said. "I'm going to drive down next Saturday, stay the night, get things back on track." Oliver wondered what "on track" meant.

"O.K.," he said. "One down. My mother will be excited, actually."

"It is exciting," Jennifer said. "Go on, get it over with." Oliver called and gave his mother the news, promising to bring Jennifer for a visit during the holidays. "There," Jennifer said, "that wasn't so bad. I want to meet your mom."

"You'll like her," Oliver said. "Want to go down to Becky's? Honeymoon fruit bowl?"

By Monday, they were ready for the working world. Jennifer gave him a goodbye smooch and drove to The Wetlands Conservancy. Oliver stopped for a bagel on his way to the hospital and read the paper like a proper commuter.

Gifford Sims shook his hand and then led him farther down the hall and into another office. "Suzanne," he said, "this is Oliver Prescott. He will be working with us on the computer." He nodded at Oliver and left. A man known far and wide for his small talk, Oliver almost said.

"Gifford is my uncle," Suzanne said neutrally. She was the same tidy chick who had looked him over on his first visit. She wore no make-up or jewelry. Her face had a healthy glow, framed by her soft shoulder-length blonde hair. She smiled quickly, a flash of teeth, an invitation, gone as soon as he took it in. Her mouth settled to a patient hurt expression. "What is your social security number?"

She filled out a form. "We still do payables by hand," she said.

"So, I should give you the bill?"

"Yes. Just leave it on my desk if I'm not here. I'm usually here." The smile again, this time rueful and just as quickly gone. She brushed her hair back with one hand. Oliver noticed lighter streaks in her hair—from the sun, probably. Her eyes were intelligent, a deep chocolate color. "I can mail the check or hold it for you."

"Holding it would be simpler."

"Good," she said. "I'll introduce you to Dan." She rose and moved around him deferentially. My size, he thought. He was used to looking up at women; it was relaxing to be taller for a change, if only by an inch.

"Glad to meet you," Dan said, shaking hands and grinning widely. "We've got plenty to do." Suzanne excused herself. Oliver's eyes lingered on her as she went out the door. "As I was saying, plenty to do."

"Right," Oliver said.

"I'm in charge of billing. That's what we use the computer for, mostly. Let me show you the computer room." He took Oliver into an air-conditioned room where four women were working at terminals. The computer was at the far end of the room, next to an enclosed line printer. "We bought a receivables package years ago, but it has been modified a lot."

"Sure," Oliver said.

"Gifford has asked us to change the late messages. Here's what he wants." Dan pulled a piece of paper from his shirt pocket and unfolded it. "Over 30 days, this; 60 days, this; 90 days, here." He circled the numbers and underlined the messages.

"O.K.," Oliver said. "Where's the documentation?"

"We don't have much," Dan said. "The original stuff is on that shelf over there."

"Ah," Oliver said. He pulled at one ear lobe. "What language are we talking?"

"RPG II."

"O.K." Oliver groaned inwardly. He'd have to get a book. RPG was supposedly the worst language ever devised. First time for everything. "No problem." That was one thing about being a professional; he knew he could do it. "Might take a while to get started . . ."

"Good! Good! We want it done right." Dan rubbed his hands together enthusiastically. He was in his early forties, medium-sized, balding, energetic. "Let me know if you have any questions. We don't work on Saturdays. Did Gifford tell you that?"

"Yes."

"Good! I'll get you a door key in case you have to get in here after hours. We lock the computer room at night."

"Dan, could you come here a moment?"

"Be right there," he called to someone in the corridor. "This is Oliver, everybody." The women had all been watching them. "Ruth, Edna, Lillian, Vi." He pointed to each in turn. Oliver smiled four times. "O.K. gang, let's get to it." Dan walked quickly out of the room, intent on the next problem. Oliver pulled a yellow pad from his bag and wrote names on the final page where they wouldn't be seen: Ruth, short blonde; Edna, happy; Lillian, glasses, bored; Vi, body; Dan; Suzanne. What a pro, he bragged to himself.

He looked through the manuals and tried to make sense of the system. The terminals in the computer room were used for data entry—billing information and payments. Terminals elsewhere in the hospital allowed people to look up information. Medical records were kept by hand in a different department.

The operating system was complicated but not too different from one he had used a few years earlier. There was a job control language that scheduled daily updates and a weekly billing run. A log kept automatic track of all programs that were executed. This gave him the names of the programs. He found Dan at the other end of the hospital and asked him for a password. Once inside the system, he found the source code for the billing programs. A lot of small programs were run in sequence before the bills were actually produced. He took a guess and printed out the last three to be run; the late messages were probably hard-coded in there somewhere. The code was incomprehensible. He couldn't get anywhere without a book. He said goodbye and drove to the Maine Mall.

There was only one book on RPG II. It was a language from the dawn of computer history, thirty years old. He took the book to the Food Court and began trying to interpret the code listings. Two cups of coffee later, he drove home. He had made some progress, but there was a lot left to figure out.

There was a statement from Myron in the mail. Francesca was listed as joint owner at the top. Her name, next to his, gave him a proud feeling. Together. The feeling of connectedness with Francesca was deep and comforting, as long as he didn't think of Jennifer and the baby at the same time.

Myron had invested most of the money in some kind of fund. There were small amounts of General Electric, Royal Dutch Shell, Pfizer, Microsoft, and Citibank. A note suggested that he stop in. "Keeping powder dry," Myron wrote. "These blue chips will grow with the economy. We'll add to them on dips and as money comes in. Waiting for good entry points on some growth companies." What was Pfizer? He'd ask Jennifer. On the other hand, he thought, maybe it would be best to keep quiet about this account—at least for now. He put the statement in his pocket and walked down to the Old Port.

"What's Pfizer?" he asked Myron.

"Pharmaceutical company. Solid. The long term outlook for the drug industry is good." Oliver inquired about the fund that was listed on the statement. "Right," Myron said. "It's a safe place to park cash—government securities only, decent return."

"I was wondering," Oliver said, "if you could hold my statements here—not send them."

"We can do that. Let me make a note. No problem."

"Thanks," Oliver said. "I'll check in from time to time."

"Or call me," Myron said. "I've got my eye on some companies—domestic natural gas, fiber optics, fuel cell technology."

"I've heard of fuel cells. What are they?"

"They produce electricity directly from a source of hydrogen. You feed them pure hydrogen or a hydrocarbon fuel; you get electricity, heat, and water. No pollution. Very reliable. Cars would be the bonanza market, but there are engineering problems to solve first—to make the cars cheap enough. There are a lot of other applications. Residential power. Industrial power."

"Wowzir!"

"It's a ways off," Myron said. "The people who develop a technology aren't always the ones who make the big money with it. Developing a business takes a different kind of skill." Myron shook his head. "I've been burnt," he said. "You put a winning technology together with winning management—then you've got something."

"It's interesting. Well—do what you think best. I'll start following these companies."

"No statement?" Myron inquired, making sure.

"Save a tree," Oliver confirmed.

"Right." A twinkle quickly disappeared. "Right."

Oliver walked up Congress Street. He saw a rack of postcards in an art supplies store window. I ought to send Muni a card, he thought. There weren't any that he liked, however. Maybe at the Museum. Christmas decorations were already appearing. It was going to be a busy holiday.

Arlen was collecting his mail when Oliver arrived home.

"Hey, Arlen, how are you?"

"Just fine, Oliver."

"Developments, Arlen!"

"I noticed—with a Volvo."

"Jennifer. We must get together soon. She's great. She's going to have a baby. We're going to have a baby."

"Congratulations! I'm happy for you, Oliver. Developments downstairs, as well."

"I wondered," Oliver said.

"Porter," Arlen said simply.

"Excellent! The House of Happy Endings."

"Thank you, Oliver. Let us hope so. When is the baby due?"

"April."

"Oh, my. Definitely we must celebrate. Whoops, there's the phone." He waved goodbye and let himself into his apartment. Oliver felt something at his feet.

"Verdi! Were you out? Well, well, time to eat isn't it?" He closed the front door behind him, and Verdi ran up the stairs. Oliver followed, seeing a can of coconut milk and a smaller can of Thai curry paste. Basil, a bit of chicken, green beans, rice . . . He was almost out of shoyu, but that wouldn't matter with a curry. Tomorrow he would get shoyu. And more veggies. Jennifer was strong on veggies.

15.

Oliver concentrated on programming. He found and successfully changed the late messages. Dan gave him a list of projects which he put aside until he could finish documenting the system. "You have to understand the data before you can work with it," he explained to Jennifer. "The data is everything. Most people don't know how to lay out a database; they make a mess that just keeps getting worse."

"You did a nice job at The Conservancy," she said.

"At some point, you have to start fresh," Oliver said. "The hospital can get by for awhile—if they don't try to change too much. I don't think they will. I don't think they want to spend the money. I mean, it works—the present system. I'll know what I'm doing in a couple of weeks."

"They're lucky to have you," Jennifer said.

"They're good to work with. You'd think that they would be a little screwy—First Fundamentalists and all that, but they aren't. They're cheerful, mostly. Practical. The women can't wear jewelry."

"Keeps them in their place," Jennifer said.

"Wedding rings are about it," Oliver said.

Jennifer cleared her throat loudly.

"Oh, yeah . . ." Oliver said. "We should do something about that—once you get your divorce."

"Was that a proposal?" She smiled appealingly.

"Sure—you don't mean church and all that?"

"No, Silly."

Oliver was relieved. "City Hall," Jennifer said. "We'll have a nice dinner afterwards. Do something for us."

"F. Parker Reidy's," Oliver said. "Eat teriyaki and watch shoppers on the snowy street."

"Wherever you like, Dear. Speaking of snow, we're lucking out—I shouldn't have any problem getting to Wayland."

"How far is Wayland from Boston?"

"Depends on what time it is—half an hour, usually. I take 495 right around the city, no problem. Umm . . . Sweetums?"

"Yes?"

"I was wondering if you would do something for me. I know I'm being awful, but—well—it's that snakeskin. It gives me a chill when I look at it." She put one hand on her stomach. "It's so—deadly."

Oliver walked over to the steps and pulled out the thumb tacks that held the snakeskin. "Can't have you getting a chill," he said.

"Oh, thank you. I just can't help it—how I feel," she said.

"Of course you can't." Oliver rolled the skin into a coil and put a thick rubber band around it. He hefted it in his palm. "I'll take it down to the basement. He sealed it in a Ziploc bag and stored it in a toolbox.

The next day, Jennifer left at noon to see her parents. Oliver had a pint at Deweys with Richard and went to bed early. He lay there, not used to sleeping alone, and thought about the relationship. It was like living with Charlotte again, but Jennifer was more fun. She was a natural mother—not at all bothered by pregnancy. All in all, the relationship was pretty good, but he avoided comparing Jennifer to Francesca.

In the morning he got up and took coffee to Crescent Beach as though his life hadn't changed during the last two weeks. There was an inch of snow—not enough to keep Francesca away. As he approached the beach he saw a shiny patch on the driftwood log. A Ziploc bag was taped to the log where they usually sat. The bag looked as if it had been there several days.

He bent over and saw a heart drawn on the paper inside. "O+F." He tore the bag from the log and removed the paper. It was folded. Inside, a note read: "Missed you yesterday. Leaving Wednesday. Be back in the spring, I guess. I hope you'll be here."

Oliver folded the note carefully and looked south. "I'll be here," he said. It was an acknowledgement and a promise. He felt a deep conflict in his loyalties, but it was bearable. The promise came from a different place than his attachment to Jennifer and the baby.

He stayed a few minutes savoring the coffee and the cold damp air. Gulls circled and dove at the other end of the beach. The geese were long gone. When he left, he took with him all traces of Francesca's note.

Jennifer arrived home during the early game. "Hi, Sweetheart," she said. "The roads were fine. Mother is withholding judgment until she sees you, but Daddy is on board. Don't worry, she'll love you."

"The Patriots don't look too good," Oliver said. "I'll wow her with my knowledge of RPG II."

"I said we'd come down at Christmas."

"O.K.," Oliver said. "Jesus!"

"What's the matter?"

"He dropped it," Oliver said. "You're back nice and early."

"We had a big breakfast around nine. I left right after. What do you think of 'Emma' as a name?"

"No!" Jennifer's face fell. "Not another one! Get him out of there!"

"Oliver . . ."

"Yes—Emma," he said. "I like it. Why Emma?"

"My grandmother's name was Emma." Jennifer was smiling again.

"Sure," Oliver said, "I like it. What if it's a boy?"

"I don't know," she said. "My father's name is Gene."

"How about Frisco?"

"Frisco? But that's a place, not a person . . ."

"Nakano. Nakano Prescott, now there's a name."

"I don't know." Jennifer's hands went protectively to her belly. "Nak?
Naky?"

Oliver raised his voice. "Nakano Prescott stretches, makes the grab, takes a big hit and holds on! The Patriots got something when they signed this guy." He patted her. "Just trying it out—I'm not real strong on Gene."

"Well, we have four months," Jennifer said.

In April, early on the morning of the 26th, two months after they were married in City Hall and had their celebratory dinner at F. Parker Reidy's, Jennifer felt the first serious contraction. Six hours later, Emma Dior Prescott wrinkled her nose, squinted, made two fists—triumphantly, according to Oliver—and went back to sleep, breathing on her own. Jennifer was thrilled and tired. Oliver felt a new kind of pang when he saw Emma. She had dark hair and seemed to be clutching part of his heart with her tiny hands, as though she had moved from one support system to another.

Deweys was barely open when he got there. "One for me and one more for my baby," he said to Sam. "Jenn had a little girl."

"No shit! Congratulations. Hey, the Guinness is on the house, man; you're going to need your strength."

Oliver drank and relaxed. The winter had passed in a blur. Each day had been filled with work and things to do at home; the months had slipped past scarcely noticed. Jennifer's growing weight had defined the season that mattered.

"I have responsibilities," he announced after his second pint. "I must call the grandparents."

He walked home and talked to his mother and to Jennifer's father. Gene was particularly pleased. "I had my order in," he said. "Does she look like Jenny?"

"More like me, actually."

Gene was quick. "Sweet thing! You're a lucky man, Oliver."

Oliver was supposed to say, "Thank you, Sir," or some such. "It was an easy birth," he said. "I'm going to pick them up tomorrow."

"Fine, fine," Gene said, "we can't wait to see her."

"Come on up."

"Fine. Dolly will call, tomorrow or the next day."

Oliver's mother shrieked, sobbed, and made him promise to call the moment that they were ready for a short visit. Oliver agreed and hung up thinking that good news was easy to pass along. He had already written his father and explained the situation, so he needed only to send a birth announcement. "Emma Dior Prescott—April 26th, 1994—7 lbs 6 oz. Looks a little like us," he added beneath.

He walked to the corner and dropped the card in the mailbox. On his way back, he met Arlen and told him the news. "A major event. I'm happy for you," Arlen said. Oliver took a nap and walked down to Deweys for more Guinness and congratulations. He went to bed feeling as though he had made it through a one-way turnstile. Things were different on this side; there was a lot to do.

The next day he brought Jennifer and Emma home from Mercy Hospital. Verdi had gotten used to Jennifer. He sniffed Emma for a moment and then jumped to his place on the living room windowsill, settling down as if to say: one more—what's the difference?

Emma slept and fed. Jennifer spent happy weeks keeping her close and occasionally preparing a meal or cleaning the apartment. Oliver enjoyed holding Emma and being fatherly, although he sensed that his presence was not entirely necessary.

Dior and Paul came for a one night visit. His mother liked Jennifer and gushed endlessly over Emma. He and Paul had drinks in the background and talked about work and the Red Sox. It had been how many years since Carleton Fisk had gone to Chicago? One of the all-time great catchers, a son of New Hampshire—the event still felt like the death of an era, almost the death of New England.

Dolly and Gene were more formal. They were pleased and full of instruction. Gene inquired after Oliver's life insurance.

"No?" He gave Oliver his most forgiving and father-in-law knows best smile, stopping just short of issuing an order. It happens to all of us; you might as well get with the program—that was the message.

Jennifer was satisfied with both visits. Nothing really mattered but Emma, anyway. "Isn't she a doll baby? The most precious doll baby," she would say, answering her own question and thrusting Emma into Oliver's arms.

"Yes, she is. Yes, you are," he would say, holding Emma carefully. She was a good-natured baby. Her hearing was sensitive; she made faces and sometimes cried at loud noises. She liked music. Oliver had fun twirling her around the living room, keeping her high against his shoulder so that she could see the walls spin by.

One Saturday late in May, he received a note from Francesca saying that she was coming back that week and that the winter had not gone well. Jennifer didn't ask about the letter, perhaps she hadn't noticed it. Oliver said nothing. Later that afternoon, he took a roundabout route shopping and walked out to Crescent Beach. The log had shifted position during the winter, but it was close to the same spot. He left a note in their format: "O+F" in a heart on the outside. Inside, he wrote: "Welcome back. Much to tell you." That was all he could bring himself to say. If Francesca came out in the morning, at least she would have a welcome. Maybe he could get there, maybe not.

Sunday morning, he went out for bagels and a newspaper. On his way home, at the last moment, he kept going down State Street. He crossed the bridge, drove to Cape Elizabeth, and walked quickly to the beach. He didn't know what to say, but he was suddenly glad and hopeful that Francesca might be there. The force of his feeling surprised him. The note was gone. She wasn't around. She got it anyway, he thought as he hurried back. Probably.

That week, when he thought of Francesca, he twisted his wedding ring around and around his finger. He worried about her and about the girls. It occurred to him that Emma would be as large as Maria and Elena in a few years. It didn't seem possible. The following Sunday, he got up early, put on running shoes, and told Jennifer that he would be back with bagels in an hour or so. He bought coffees to go and carried them to the log in a paper bag. The water was cold that early in the season. There was no one on the beach. No note. No sculptures or arrangements. He and Francesca might never have been there.

A figure appeared in the distance, walking with long familiar strides. He balanced the bag on the log and started toward her. She was wearing a gray sweatshirt and jeans. Her hair was shorter than it had been. Her eyes. Her beautiful mouth. They walked into an embrace that became tighter and tighter. There was no time, no weather, no ocean. Getting closer was all that mattered. Francesca was trembling. Oliver dug his feet deeper into the sand and moved one hand slowly across her back. She let out a deep breath and relaxed against him. When they stepped apart, it was like waking up in the morning.

"Hi," he said, stupidly.

"Oliver . . ."

"You look like you've had a hard time. I brought coffee." He pointed back to the log.

"The worst is over," she said. "I've left him. I'm still at the house—but only for a little while. Conor's staying with a friend."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm taking the girls to the West Coast. Seattle, I think. I need a clean break. If I stay here, Conor will keep hanging around and using the girls to keep me down."

"Oh," Oliver said. "Seattle is supposed to be a good place. I like the Northwest. Shit." They sat on the log, and Oliver handed her a cup. "From Mr. Bagel," he said. "There have been changes in my life, too." He paused. "I got married," he blurted out. "I have a daughter, five weeks old." Francesca put her cup down on the sand and took two steps toward the water. She stood with her fingers to her lips in a prayer position. Oliver explained what had happened.

"How wonderful to have a baby," she said in a low voice. "Emma—how wonderful."

"She is," Oliver apologized.

"Are you happy?"

"I guess so," he said.

She turned. "Oh, Oliver!" She opened her arms, and this time it was she who was consoling. A part of him wanted to scream with fury, but a deeper part became calmer as she held him. There were big problems off in the future—impossible problems—but they were their problems.

"God, I love you," he said, stepping back.

"It's a strange time to feel lucky," she said, "but I do." She looked at his wedding ring. "I'm a bad woman now, too—along with everything else."

"Bad to the bone," Oliver said. He reached down for her coffee and handed it to her. "Some bones," he said. He sat on the log and shook his head. "Damn . . ." They were quiet for a minute. "When are you leaving?"

"In three or four weeks. I'm going to drive out, bring as much as I can with me. I've got to get a better car—something that will pull a small U-Haul trailer and hold up."

"The money is there if you need it," Oliver said. "Jennifer wants to buy a house in Cumberland or North Yarmouth. I'm going to use some for a down payment, but there will be plenty left—ten, twenty, thirty thousand—just call Myron and he'll send you a check."

"I have enough to go on. And Conor will pay child support. I can work, you know. Did I tell you I was a registered nurse?"

"No."

"Yeah, I went through a program after I got out of college. I only worked for a year before I met Conor. I'm glad I did, now . . . It's nice to know about the money. I don't know what's going to happen, really. I just know I've got to move." She paused.

"I wish I were moving with you."

"Never leave someone for someone else," Francesca said. "You've got to live through these things."

"That's what Mark says—my friend, Mark. Anyway, take the money if you need it; I know you won't waste it. I wish I could help with the moving, but I don't think I'd better."

"You are helping, just by being you. Emma's going to need lots of money, you know."

"Not for a while. Listen, how am I going to find you?"

"My folks will know where I am: Richard Boisverte in Edgewater, near Daytona. Conor will know—because of the girls. I'll send you a card when I have an address." She covered one of his hands with one of hers. "You're right—it's probably not a good idea to see each other. I'm a bad woman now; I could be a very bad woman any moment."

"Damn," Oliver said again. They were quiet again.

"I've got to go," he said, standing up.

"I think I'll stay here for a bit," she said. "I want to watch you walk away."

"Be careful," he pleaded.

"Bye, Baby," she said.

He looked at her for a long moment. She smiled for him, the smile that entranced him the first day he saw her in Becky's. Her mouth traveled slowly down, along, and up a complex curve, sexual at its center, sensitive at its corners, wholly alive and in the moment. He nodded in the Japanese manner, the way he had that day. Then he smiled quickly—an American promise laid on top of the Japanese one—and left. He looked back from the top of the bank at the end of the beach. She was watching him, unmoving. He lifted one arm high and walked out of sight. A hundred yards farther, he followed a smaller path to a clearing overlooking the water. He dropped to the ground and lay in a fetal position on his side with his knees drawn up and his hands between his legs. He hurt too much to cry. He just wanted to survive. There was only one level of feeling beneath his love for Francesca; he had to get there. The hard cold ground was anesthetic and numbing. Half an hour later, he brushed himself off, an animal on the earth, needing food and warmth.

"Where have you been?" Jennifer asked.

"I ran into a friend who's moving," he said. "Sorry to be so long."

"Emma's asleep again."

"Cold out there. Bagels," Oliver said, raising the bag. "I'm hungry."

16.

Emma turned over. Emma crawled. Emma made smiling googling noises when Oliver came home and picked her up. Jennifer had three months of maternity leave, and she arranged to work part time for six months after that. Oliver did not get life insurance, but he worked steadily at the hospital. He took another smaller project to round out the week and to try and get a few bucks ahead.

Francesca did not come into Oliver's mind while he was busy. Sometimes he thought of her when he was extra tired. She was a reassuring presence, even though she was far away. Sunday mornings, when he went out for bagels and a paper, he often wished that he were driving to Crescent Beach to bring her coffee. Instead, he would sit for a minute in his Jeep remembering the calm that they shared. Then he would drive home, play with Emma, and do things around the apartment.

On the Wednesday after Labor Day, Jennifer met him at the door. "I found it, today!"

"Hi, Scrumptious, how's Ms. Perfect?" He held Emma high. "That good, huh? Found what?"

"A house!" Jennifer said. "It's just right. I'm sure you'll like it."

"Oh, yeah? Where?"

"North Yarmouth, about two miles from Gillespie's. It's on a dirt road—off Route 9."

"I like Gillespie's," Oliver said. They sometimes drove out there to buy vegetables and eat donuts at outside tables that overlooked the Royal River.

"It's a real Maine house with an ell and an attached barn, not too big, perfect for a garage and tools and stuff. We could get a doggie for Emma."

"How much?"

"They're asking one-twenty. The house needs painting. There isn't much land with it—four acres."

"Four acres is a lot," Oliver said. "I mean, not in the middle of
Kansas, but . . ."

"It's about half field and half woods," Jennifer said.

"I guess we ought to go look."

"Let's go!"

"Now?'

"Of course, now. If we want it, we have to make an offer fast. It just came on the market. My friend Martha who works in real estate called me this morning."

"O.K., let me get an ale. You drive." Oliver put four bottles of ale, bread, and a piece of cheddar in a day pack. "Back later, Verdi."

The house sat up nicely on a stone foundation. Lilac bushes framed the kitchen door. "What do you think?" Jennifer asked after Oliver had walked around the house.

"It looks dry, and it faces south," he said. "One-fifteen. That's as long as there isn't anything major wrong—rotten sills, bad water, or something."

"We can get my friend Steve to inspect it," Jennifer said. "He's got a business inspecting houses. He's very good."

"Where are the owners?"

"Owner. It's a guy. I guess his wife died, and he's moving out of town."

"Too bad," Oliver said. "Looks like he had a good garden in back."

"I saw that," Jennifer said.

"The house seems all right, but you can't be sure from the outside.
Heating system could be shot. Septic system might not be any good."

"I'll make an offer contingent on the inspection," she said. "Steve will find anything that's wrong. He does a radon check and all that. Costs about three hundred, I think. Three-fifty, maybe."

"Worth it," Oliver said. "The driveway is pretty rough, but that's no big deal." He looked around. "I like it. What do you think, Princess?" Emma googled. "That does it," Oliver said.

"I knew you'd like it," Jennifer said.

"Let's go down to Gillespie's and buy a pie, sit outside, and finish this ale." They drove slowly away from the house and out to Route 9. Jennifer had good bank connections; she was sure she could get a mortgage for most of the money. Oliver said he had fifteen thousand toward a down payment. Jennifer had another ten thousand.

"Daddy will give us another fifteen. That would leave seventy-five. I know I can get seventy-five out of the bank. We make enough to take care of the rest, fix it up, get furniture and all."

"Maybe we could go easy on the furniture," Oliver said.

"Don't worry, I won't go crazy. We'll have a housewarming!"

"You're right about the place—plenty of room, but not too big. It would be good to get my tools laid out."

Five weeks later, they slid a check across a glass-topped table. A tired balding man with a red face tossed Oliver a set of keys. "Kentucky, here I come," he said.

"We want to wish you the very best of luck," Jennifer said.

"Weren't for bad luck, I wouldn't have no luck at all—that's how the song goes. But, thank you." He stood, pulled a baseball cap down on his forehead, and touched the brim in salute. "I'll be getting along." He walked out.

"B.B. King," Oliver said. "Didn't he sing that?"

"Never mind, Oliver; we're bringing the good luck with us."

"Congratulations," Martha said.

"Oh, thank you!" Jennifer jumped up and hugged her. "Come on, Oliver.
We've got to move."

A week later, Oliver was sleeping in a new bed, high off the floor. The physical move doesn't take long, he thought; getting used to it takes a while. He missed knowing that Arlen and Porter were downstairs. Porter had made an extravagant cake for Jennifer the week after she had Emma. Driving home from Deweys to North Yarmouth wasn't as easy as walking up the hill to State Street. No five minute walk to Becky's for breakfast, either. On the other hand, he had a good work space in the barn, and it was quiet at night.

Oliver counted his blessings. Verdi had made his first patrols and was adjusting. The leaves were changing color fast. It was beautiful, really. Jennifer loved the new house. Emma had a room with a baby bed and a playpen right next to their bedroom. There were plenty of projects; that was fun. Old storm windows were leaning against the wall in one corner of the barn. He had to clean them and figure out where they went. There was a wooden ladder missing a couple of rungs.

Oliver swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. "I'm going to go buy a decent ladder. I want to put those storm windows in."

Jennifer yawned. "Come back soon."

"I won't be long."

A few minutes later, he was bouncing down the road. There had been a light frost overnight; the air was snappy; it was a good day to get things done. He needed to write to Francesca. Her letter was in the bottom of the toolbox in the back of the Jeep. He knew it by heart. She was renting a house in a section of Seattle called Ballard. Maria was in school. Elena was in pre-school. Francesca was working in a family clinic, lonely, but glad to be starting a life on her terms. It was signed, "Love, F."

He drove to the Yarmouth post office and waited five minutes for it to open. He was going to send her a postcard, but he changed his mind and bought a stamped envelope. He went over to the Calendar Island Motel and wrote her a letter as he ate bacon and eggs and homefries. He described the new house and reported that Emma was crawling and would be walking soon. Work was O.K.; there were nice people at the hospital. He was thinking mainly of Dan and Suzanne, but he didn't go into it. He signed his own love and then added, "I miss you. I wish I could be two places at once." He tore the page out of his notebook and folded it into the envelope. Crap. He really was two places at once, but he didn't want to think about it. Better to get to work.

The morning was warming when he untied the new ladder and carried it from the roof rack. He laid it on the grass and assembled it, tying off the lifting rope. Jennifer put her head out the front door. "Where've you been?"

"Hi, pretty good, huh?" He pointed to the shiny aluminum ladder. "I stopped for breakfast." He pointed to Verdi who was motionless beneath a rose bush by the corner of the house. "I see you. Where's Princess?"

"In her room. Why don't we bring the playpen out here? Will you watch her? I want to go to Gillespie's."

"Sure." They took the playpen apart and put it back together on the lawn. Emma sat in the sun surrounded by rattles, balls, and small stuffed bears. Jennifer left and Oliver set up a window-washing station in front of the house. Should I wash them all first, or one at a time as I put them in? he asked himself. One at a time. He cleaned the first and noticed a small lead disk numbered, 7, nailed to the outside face of the bottom of the sash.

"Aha," he said. "But where is window seven, Emma? Where is window seven?" He walked along the front of the house, checking each window for some kind of number. On the end of the windowsill of the fourth window, he found a disk numbered, 3. That makes a lot of sense, he thought. He continued around the end of the house. There was a two on the next window. It did make sense; the starting point was different, that was all. There were two windows at that end of the first floor. The numbering started at the far corner, came around the end, and continued across the front of the house. The windows that looked into the ell at the other end were not fitted for storms, so number seven was the first one on the back side.

"Looking good," he said to Emma. He took the clean window around to the back of the house and put it in place. The sash fit flush with the outer casing. Metal clips held the window in place. He swiveled them over the sash and tightened them down with a screwdriver. "O.K. Thirteen to go."

He was down to nine when Jennifer returned with a carload of groceries.
"I got some cider from Gillespie's. How's Emma?"

"Having a good time," Oliver said. "A couple of bees checked her out.
No harm done. I think she likes it outside."

"That's my precious," Jennifer said, lifting her out of the playpen. "Oh, you need changing, oh my precious!" She looked at Oliver accusingly.

"Whoops," he said. He unloaded the car while she changed Emma. "Great stuff, this cider," he said, knocking down a glass.

The afternoons were short in October, but Oliver had the windows in place by four o'clock. Jennifer had cooked a ham and baked two pies. The house smelled good. Emma was asleep. Oliver opened a bottle of Rioja, and they ate, listening to Prairie Home Companion on the public radio station. He would rather have talked about something—Garrison Keillor was too smug for Oliver's taste—but Jennifer loved him. He was funny, sometimes, Oliver admitted. And the music was good.

Later, in bed, Jennifer sighed contentedly. "I love it here," she said. Oliver snuggled closer. "I've been thinking about two weeks from today," she went on.

"Two weeks?" he mumbled.

"For the housewarming."

"Housewarming." He put a hand on her breast.

"Mmmm," she said. "I want to invite everybody! "

"O.K." Oliver moved one leg farther up on hers. He put his mouth against her neck. "Everybody," he murmured. A small shiver went through her. She was wifely now in bed, accommodating, easily satisfied. Oliver did his part; she did hers. They fell asleep peacefully and properly. Oliver did not hear her get up to attend to Emma.

In the morning they decided that "everybody" meant everybody but their parents. The holidays were coming; they would see them soon. Besides, the party might be loud and last into the night, not a parents' kind of party. "The telephone man is coming tomorrow," Jennifer said. "I'll call my friends; you call yours."

"O.K.," Oliver said. "I might stop in at Deweys."

At the hospital the following day, he invited Dan to the housewarming. Dan had twin girls in junior high and a devout wife. Oliver didn't expect him to accept, but he liked Dan and wanted to ask.

"Saturday after next? Can't make it," Dan said. "I'm going to see my brother."

"Oh. Where does he live?"

"Upstate New York. He works on a farm." Dan saw Oliver's surprise and continued. "It's a long story. We're twins. And now I have twins—strange. Something happened at birth; my brother was born retarded, mentally challenged." Dan rubbed the back of his neck. "We were given up for adoption. I didn't find out about this until I was grown up."

"No," Oliver said.

"Dale was raised in an institution and eventually got work on this farm where he gets room and board. It took me quite a while to find him. I go see him every three or four months."

"That's too bad," Oliver said.

"He's a worker!" Dan said proudly. "He's strong. He's in a lot better shape than I am."

"Is he happy there?"

"Yeah. We keep asking him to come and live with us, but he wants to stay there. He likes his responsibilities, takes them seriously. He comes over for a week's vacation every year." Dan smiled. "He splits all our wood when he's here. The girls love him."

"Nice family," Oliver said.

"That's what it's all about. Sorry to miss the party, though."

"Well, some other time," Oliver said, raising one hand.

"Lucille," Dan called to a nurse down the hall, walking quickly after her.

"He does the work of two people at least," Oliver said later to Suzanne.

"Kind of a workaholic, really," she said.

"A great guy," Oliver said.

"He is."

"Human," Oliver said. "The other day . . . I shouldn't tell you this."

"I can keep a secret."

"We went out for lunch and Dan had chicken—barbecued chicken. 'I thought you were a vegetarian,' I said to him.

"'I weaken sometimes,' he said, chewing. 'Do you think the Lord will forgive me?'

"'If He doesn't forgive you, there's no hope for me whatsoever,' I said."

Suzanne laughed. "Or me."

"Sinners," Oliver said.

"'Fraid so," she said more softly.

"Can you make it to the housewarming?"

"I don't think so."

"Damn. What are you doing?"

"I've got a book," she said.

"Aha. Romance. A blonde hulk who will carry you away." Oliver was looking levelly into her eyes.

A small smile turned the corners of her mouth down. "I'm waiting for someone my size." They were in her office. Oliver registered that it was very warm. He saw her shudder and give in to a wave of longing. Her lips parted and her breasts lifted. He reached for her in slow motion and stopped himself just before he touched her.

He was shocked. "I . . ."

"I know," she said. She closed her eyes. "God, I know."

"Suzanne . . ." She shook her head and smiled helplessly.

"I'll read my book."

"We've got to talk sometime," he said. She nodded. He took a deep breath and left.

Oliver was trembling as he drove away. What was that all about? He and Suzanne had become more friendly as time had gone by. They often talked, and she was always sympathetic. But he hadn't expected anything like what had just happened. His breathing was still messed up. When she had surrendered to him, he had been jolted by a rush of strength. He felt like Ghengis Khan or something.

Suzanne was sharp. She remembered everything he said about the computer system, repeating things back to him word for word months later. She was very helpful. He depended on her support, he realized. There was something about her that got to him, a lonely bruised quality. She had eloped in high school, run away to Tennessee, and returned eighteen months later. Her family and the church took her back, but . . . She was still living in a shamed shadow.

He decided that he needed a Guinness. He stopped at Deweys, and two pints later he was back in control. Better than that. The last of the warrior-lovers invited the entire bar to the housewarming and went home.

17.

Oliver didn't know what to do about Suzanne. They worked together; he couldn't avoid her. He didn't want to avoid her. She was alive and vital and for him, somehow. He turned toward her like a plant toward light. That's the problem, he thought the next morning as he drove into the hospital parking lot. I've been attracted to her all along. I've flirted with her and leaned on her. I'm a creep.

Holding that thought firmly, he marched by Molly, waved good morning, rounded the corner, and went directly to Suzanne's office. She wasn't there. Her light was off. He went back to Molly and asked whether Suzanne had come in.

"She called in sick, Honey."

"Ah. Too bad."

"She said she'd be in tomorrow."

"What's so funny?" Molly was giggling.

"I asked her what was sick, and she said it was her hair. Her hair was sick. I wish my hair was that sick. I hope she doesn't go and do something foolish."

"I like your hair," Oliver said, setting off the flashing "creep" sign.
The phone rescued him. "I'd better get to work."

"First Fundamentalist Hospital," Molly said, her gorgeous drawl following him around the corner.

At least he had another day to think things over. His marriage was going smoothly enough. Dull at times, sure. Weren't all marriages? Jennifer and he didn't have that much in common, as it had turned out. But they were good humored, and they shared a disposition to make the best of things. He had his responsibilities; she had hers; they avoided confrontation. He was genuinely fond of her. And they had Emma. Emma was a delight, a little like each of them, although she took after him in looks. He should have been on top of the world, compared to most people.

So—why was he reaching for Suzanne? There was something coiled inside him, a force that he wasn't sure he could control. Intuition told Oliver that if he ran from it or pretended it wasn't there, he would be in even bigger trouble.

He was at work before Suzanne arrived the next day. He watched her drive in and walk toward the front entrance. Even at that distance and under a parka, her body radiated a compact grace. Her hair was gathered and held by a red scarf that hung to the nape of her neck. She hadn't done anything drastic. He waited a few minutes and went to her office. His heart was beating fast.

"I'm sorry," he began.

She shook her head. "It's my fault, Oliver. You're married and you have a child. I lost control. I'm—not a good woman."

"You're a wonderful woman."

"I've been praying," she said. "I don't pray like the rest of them, but
God hears everyone."

Oliver pulled at one ear lobe, off balance.

"I'm asking Him to take this want out of me." Suzanne's voice trailed off. "I don't think I can do it by myself." Oliver's cheeks grew hot. "I was going to cut my hair practically off, but I couldn't."

"I'm glad you didn't."

She looked at him, helpless again. "What are we going to do?"

"I don't know," Oliver said. "I have the want, too."

Suzanne smiled for the first time. "If you've got it like I do, one of us is going to have to leave the state."

"Maybe there's some other way," he said. "Tell me how much you love disco."

"I hate disco," she said apologetically. "I like old time country music. And jazz. Coltrane."

"Oh swell," Oliver said. "Have you ever been to the Cafe No, in
Portland?" Suzanne shook her head. "Terrific place to hear live jazz."
He stopped, frustrated.

"I'll leave if you want me to," she said. "I ought to be able to get a job somewhere else."

"Don't do that." He didn't know what else to say. "Don't do that."

"Maybe if we didn't talk," she said. "Only just about work."

"O.K.," Oliver said. "I'll try. I'd hug you but I think something would catch fire."

"Burning already," she said, trying to smile. Oliver closed his eyes and took a deep breath. His feet felt like they were in cement. He dragged them up, one after the other, and left.

He finished a small project but couldn't bring himself to start the next one. He drove into Portland without saying goodbye to Suzanne. This wasn't going to be easy, he thought. He went to Gritty's for party kegs. They brewed ale downstairs and pumped it directly from the bar. He didn't know how many people would come to the housewarming—some would rather drink wine or the hard stuff. Five gallons of ale should be enough. He bought six, to be on the safe side.

He had lunch in Deweys, hoping to calm down. But the more he thought about Suzanne, the more confused he got. Mark came in and Oliver asked him, "What do you do when you've got a strong attraction going that isn't—appropriate?"

"You're asking me?"

"Well," Oliver said, "just an opinion."

"What does she look like?"

"Nice looking. Nothing unusual. My size. Great body." Oliver thought. "I guess what's unusual about her is how connected she is. I mean, her body is in her face. She walks the way she feels. She's all one piece."

"It don't mean a thing, if it ain't got that zing. " Mark said. "Ellington."

"Hmmm," Oliver said.

"If it's inappropriate—whatever that means—and you go ahead with it, you suffer. If you don't go ahead with it, you suffer anyway. You're fucked, man."

"Swell," Oliver said.

"Could be worse," Mark said.

"How?"

"You could be a zombie executive in suburbia."

"North Yarmouth is close," Oliver said. "Speaking of which—are you coming to the housewarming?"

"Saturday, right?"

"Yeah—middle of the day, anytime. Bring a friend."

"Friend? You think you got problems? Later, man." Mark rushed off.

Suffer? Was it the male condition? I guess women suffer, too, Oliver thought. The human condition, then? He resisted this. Why should we suffer? The "we" he had in mind, he realized, was mostly Suzanne. Jacky was in there somewhere, and Francesca, higher and in the distance. Jennifer wasn't there. Jennifer and he did not suffer. She was his partner. He admired her energy, respected her, loved her, even—in a general way. Wasn't that what marriage was all about?

It don't mean a thing, if it ain't got that zing.

You're fucked, man.

Do something.

He drove back to North Yarmouth. "I'm home!"

"Hi, Sweetums. What's the matter? Here." Jennifer thrust Emma into his arms. "Watch Emma for a while, will you? I'm glad you came home early; I've got some things to do at The Conservancy. Oh, good!" She did not wait for an answer. "Tell me later—bad day at work?"

"Nah," Oliver said. "Never mind. How's Precious?"

"Precious had a good nap. See you in a couple of hours."

"Down," Emma said. "Down."

"O.K.," Oliver said. "Down, it is." He put her on her hands and knees in the center of the living room rug. He heard the Volvo start and race down the driveway. Too fast, he thought—hard on the front end. Emma made a laughing sound as she crawled around in a small circle, the way Verdi used to chase his tail. She rolled over, sat up, and looked at him with delight.

"What a show off!" he said. "Very good crawl. Very good. Want to try the toddle? Try the walk?" He got to his knees and closed her hand in his fist. "Try walk?"

"Da Da," she said. He pulled her slowly to her feet. Her other arm went out for balance and she sat back down.

"Very good!" Emma smiled victoriously.

"She almost stood up," he told Jennifer when she got back. "I'll bet she's walking in a couple of months."

"I hope you're not pushing her."

"The Olympic Trials are right around the corner."

"Oh, Oliver. The Germans always win the baby walk."

Oliver laughed. "What's for dinner?"

"Pizza—pesto and chicken."

"God," Oliver said.

"Oh, something good happened at The Conservancy. Jacky Chapelle dropped by—remember Jacky? She's in town for a week. She said she'd come to the party."

"Ah . . ." Oliver cleared his throat. "I like Jacky."

"I thought you did."

"Surprised she isn't married," he said, "a bit bossy, I guess." He shook his head sadly, reactivating the "creep" sign.

"Well, you're taken."

"Quite so," Oliver said. "Just another hungry breadwinner."

"Half an hour. Oh, Precious, did Daddy make you walk?"

"Mama," Emma said as Oliver retreated to the barn.

It was good that Jacky was coming, Oliver decided; it meant that she had forgiven him or gotten over it or something. Maybe she had a new lover. That was a cheerful thought. He was in a good mood when Jennifer called him in for dinner.

In the following days, Oliver stayed away from Suzanne as much as possible. The few times that they were by themselves were uncomfortable, but at least they could show the hurt they felt, even if they didn't talk about it. Passing in the hallway was harder. Others would notice if they tried to ignore each other; they were forced to be friendly in a phony way, as though they didn't feel the force drawing them together. Suzanne began to look strained. Oliver kept his head down and worked hard.

The day of the party was gray and drizzly, warm for late fall. Oliver stood in the open door of the barn, holding a paper cup of ale and welcoming guests. By mid-afternoon, cars were parked around the first bend of the driveway. Thirty or forty people were milling about in the house giving Jennifer advice and admiring Emma. Jennifer was flushed and pleased. She kept the conversations lively while she brought appetizers in and out of the kitchen. Porter had come through with a quantity of scones, apricot—walnut and cranberry—orange. Oliver took special pleasure in pouring a Glenlivet for Arlen. They stood in amiable silence as rain dripped from the barn roof.

"Couple of cows and I'd be right at home," Arlen said.

"I've been thinking of getting a little John Deere."

"Well—they can come in handy."

"I guess." Oliver's thoughts drifted to Jacky. She appeared, on cue, walking up the drive. He met her with a hug. "Jacky! You look great." She held him tightly and then stepped back, knuckling the top of his head.

"How's married life?"

"Fine," he said. She looked at him closely.

"I'm thinking of trying it myself," she said. "I don't know."

"Uh, Jacky, this is my buddy, Arlen."

"How do you do," Arlen said, extending his hand.

"A pleasure to meet you," Jacky said. "What's that in your glass?"
Arlen held his glass up for inspection. Jacky bent forward and sniffed.
"Sarsaparilla!"

"Quite good on a rainy afternoon," Arlen said.

"Yumm," Jacky said.

"Oliver, sarsaparilla for the lady."

"Right away. Does the lady like water with her sarsaparilla?"

"Half and half."

"Yes," Arlen said approvingly. Oliver prepared her drink and handed it to her.

"To your new family and your beautiful old house," she toasted.

"Jacky! How nice!" Jennifer swept in and gave Jacky one of those lengthy woman to woman hugs, timed to the microsecond to communicate eternal devotion, unceasing turf vigilance, equality before the Great Sister, and other messages beyond Oliver's understanding. Arlen exuded calm; the two women might have been cows rubbing shoulders. "Come and see Emma." Jennifer led Jacky into the house.

Arlen and Oliver resumed their positions in the doorway. "I don't want to intrude, Oliver, but wasn't she the one . . ."

"Yup," Oliver interrupted. "She was."

"Interesting," Arlen said. "Very attractive."

"What do you think makes someone attractive?" Oliver asked.

"Hmmm. Physical health. Energy. Integrity is most important, I think."

"Integrity," Oliver imagined Jacky and then Suzanne.

"Of course, it's different for everybody. We all have our weaknesses. Little things. Porter's forearms, for instance—the way they swell up from his wrist. As soon as I saw them, I thought, oh, oh . . ."

"Lucky Porter," Oliver said.

"Olive Oil!" George bounced in from the ell. "Hi, Arlen, how're you doing?"

"Just fine, George."

"Bazumas, Olive Oil! My God! I thought I'd never see her again. I asked if I could paint her. She said yes but I'd have to drive to Maryland." George hung his head. "It's a curse—art."

"Maryland's just down the way," Arlen said.

"Arlen, my car!" George threw one arm in the air. "I'm lucky it starts. Maryland?"

"Life is hard," Oliver said.

"Food," Arlen said, heading for the kitchen.

"Yes," George said, following him. Oliver looked down the driveway and focused on a man walking slowly toward the house. The man smiled when he was closer.

"You must be Oliver. Ah, yes."

"I am. I remember you from somewhere."

"Ba, ba, boom," the man said and twirled around.

"Bogdolf!"

"Eric Hallston, actually. I'm an old friend of Jennifer's."

"You look so much younger," Oliver said.

"The miracle of make-up. When I do a Bogdolf, I use a lot of gray.
People like an older Bogdolf."

"I'll be damned," Oliver said. "Well, come on in. What are you drinking? Mead?"

"Mead? Very funny. Horrible stuff. Scotch would be nice, but that ale I see would be fine."

"Glenlivet, right there." Oliver pointed to the table that was inside the barn. "Help yourself. Jennifer's in the house." Bogdolf Eric poured himself a stiff one.

"I have a surprise in here," he said, waving a manila envelope. "You don't have to like it. You don't have to accept. I'm sure Jennifer will, but you are Lord of your Keep."

"Bogdolf, what are you talking about?"

"Eric, please."

"Eric." Oliver watched him extract an eight by ten glossy photograph from the envelope. He handed it to Oliver.

"Last one left." A puppy with big paws and big ears stared up at
Oliver. "She has her shots and everything."

"Cute," Oliver said. "What kind is she?"

"Mother is a golden. Father is a lab. Total retriever."

"Could bring me my paper," Oliver said, starting to slip.

"Might be nice for your daughter."

"Emma," Oliver said, brightening. "Come see her." He took Eric through the ell and into the kitchen. "Here we are," he said.

"Eric!" Jennifer hugged him warmly.

"Eric has a puppy for us."

"A puppy?" Jennifer looked at the photograph.

"Oh, how cute! How cute! Oh, Oliver, wouldn't it be just perfect for
Emma?"

"Mmm." It was hard for Oliver to disagree.

"I can bring her any time you'd like. Sooner would be better—you know—bonding and all that." Jennifer nodded wisely and took Eric to see Emma who was in her playpen in the living room. Oliver went back to the barn. Christ, he said to himself. It was beginning to get dark, a relief.

"Gotta go, Handsome." Jacky appeared at his elbow.

"So soon?"

"Long day tomorrow. Driving back."

"I'll walk you down," Oliver said.

"Where's your coat? You'll get wet."

"I don't need one," he said. They walked down the driveway in comfortable silence. The light rain had gradually wet things through. Branches and leaves were dripping, and the drive was muddy in patches.

"You don't look so great," she said.

"I'm O.K."

"Terrific kid."

"She is. I don't know . . . It's the sex thing."

"I thought so," Jacky said. She was surprisingly sympathetic for someone who had been throwing wine glasses at him the last time he'd seen her.

"How's your love life?"

"Improving," Jacky said. "I found a real nice guy. He works on Capitol
Hill, actually."

"I'm glad," Oliver said. "You look mellower."

"I've been working my way through some of this sexual stuff," she said. "I'm not so different. I mean—I still like my equipment." Oliver put his arm around her shoulders and hugged her. "But it's not so important. There are other kinds of bonds." She paused. "I think maybe you have some work to do in that area. But—leave it in the bedroom, Oliver." They walked on.

"I'm trying," he said.

"I think you have a little dom in you," Jacky said. Oliver realized that he was having a talk that actually meant something. He filled with gratitude.

"I love you," he said. "I can't live with you, but I love you." They reached her car.

"Thank you," she said. "That's sweet." She got in the car, started it, and rolled down her window. Oliver put both hands on the window and leaned over. "Be true," she said. "That's the main thing." He straightened.

"Take care," he said. He didn't kiss her; his mind was going too fast.
Be true? To what? He fought for understanding.

"Bye, Oliver," she said. She backed out and continued backwards down the driveway at a good clip. Coordinated, he conceded.

"Bye, Jacky," he said, waving as she disappeared around the corner. The rain came a little harder. Drops washed down his face like tears. No wonder things can grow, he thought. The rain forgives them.

18.

Bogdolf Eric delivered the puppy two days later while Oliver was at work. Emma loved her and vice versa. As soon as Bogdolf's presence faded, Oliver loved her too. They tried "Jesse" for a name, then "Jesse Woofwoof." "Woof" was what stuck. She was good—natured and full of energy, forever trying to get Verdi to play. Verdi would tolerate her briefly and then swipe her in the nose. Woof would yelp and jump back, feelings hurt. Verdi would leap to a windowsill and ignore her.

Oliver stayed away from Suzanne, although he badly wanted to talk to her. He could have gotten out of the hospital Christmas party if he had made an effort. He didn't.

When the day of the party came, Jennifer was happy to stay home with Emma, Woof, and Verdi. Oliver put on a warm jacket and drove to the hospital where he passed a slow two hours exchanging glances with Suzanne. Various employees made speeches, and her uncle presented awards. Dan's daughters were a hit playing a fiddle and accordion medley of dance tunes and Christmas carols. Suzanne was wearing a caramel-colored cashmere sweater over a tight red skirt. She made an effort to be cheerful, but she seemed tense. Without either of them making an obvious effort, they moved next to each other.

"I've got to talk to you," he said quietly.

"Not here," she said.

"O.K."

A minute later she turned toward him and said, "Follow me when I leave." Her lips barely moved. He nodded.

When the party ended, she exited the parking lot, turned right, and drove slowly until he came up behind her. She led him seven or eight miles away from the coast and into the country before turning into a narrow driveway. They climbed between pines to the top of a short rise where a small house faced away from the driveway. Suzanne parked in the carport and got out as Oliver stopped. She waved for him to follow her and walked around to the front of the house. A screened porch looked out on a two acre field, a tangle of browns and yellows in the weak December sun. A rectangle of field near the porch had been made into a lawn. A flower border separated the lawn from the field.

"Isn't this pretty," Oliver said.

"I guess it'd be easier to live in a condo," she said, "but I like it out here." The way she said "I" and "out here" was instantly familiar to Oliver. She was comfortable with being alone, in the company of the trees and the field. A chickadee flitted to a large bird feeder and flew back toward the woods. The quiet hammered in Oliver's ears. He took a deep breath. Suzanne was looking at him in a concerned way. She was concerned about him, he realized—not their future, not their work, not their child—him.

His knees began to shake. She felt it and moved closer. "I need to sit down," he said. Suzanne looked at the porch. Oliver went to his knees on the hard ground. She bent over and put a hand on his shoulder.

"I can fix us some tea," she said. Oliver closed his hand on her wrist and pulled her slowly to the ground beside him. She rolled gracefully to her back, her eyes wide open on his. Her other hand was on his arm, lightly holding him to her. Time slowed.

He brought his mouth down on hers. She softened and opened. He pressed harder, flattening her lips against her teeth. He could feel the ground through her head as he rocked in each direction. Her hand went to the back of his head, pulling him closer. Oliver's mind began to spin from not breathing. He started to pull away. Suzanne's head came up with his. She made a pleading sound and drew him back to the ground. His hand went to her hip. Heat spread across his upper chest and into his arms. He put one hand on each side of her head and held her down as he raised his body and gasped for air.

Suzanne's eyes were closed. She was breathing rapidly through her mouth. Oliver got to his knees, took off his jacket, and spread it next to her. She did not resist as he lifted her hips and moved her onto the jacket. He lay next to her and put the fingers of one hand across her mouth. She kissed his fingers. He pushed up her skirt and reached between her legs with his other hand. Her knees fell open, and her mouth opened under his fingers. She tilted her pelvis, pushed against his hand, and helped him to remove her warm underwear.

He took off his pants and put his fingers back on her mouth as he lowered himself over her. As he slid into her, she took the heel of his hand between her teeth. When he withdrew, she bit harder. He came in deeper, and she lifted against him. Her arms were flung out wide, palms up. He was cradled in her hips. With each stroke, he felt the ground beneath her, felt closer and closer to home. Suzanne strained up, jerked twice convulsively, and sent a clear cry across the field. She wrapped him with both arms and urged him, helped him through the door. He fell headfirst, grateful, filling her as he fell, filling her for good and all.

He lay collapsed and quiet while his breathing straightened out.
Suzanne giggled. "What?" he mumbled.

"I'm hot on top and getting cold below," she said.

He pictured them from above. "Ummm," he said, "spy satellites . . ."

"It's your ass going to be saved for intelligence," Suzanne said.

Oliver raised himself from her. "Enough to make a man put his pants on."

"I've got a shower big enough for two," she said.

Minutes later, they were trading places under a stream of hot water, soaping each other and rinsing off bits of grass and dirt. "Great breasts," Oliver said, rubbing each one respectfully.

"The Lord was in a good mood," she said, pushing against him.

"Oh, oh," Oliver remembered. "What about babies?"

"I'm on the pill," she said. "Have been ever since Donny."

"Donny?"

"He's the one I ran away with."

"Oh. Good about the pill."

"I wouldn't mess you up," she said. "Or me, either. I could never have an abortion. How about that tea?"

"Yes," Oliver said.

"You're a much better fuck than Donny," she said. Oliver was embarrassed and pleased. "Well look at you blush! Come on, Lover—here's a clean towel."

He dried himself and dressed. As he waited for tea, he thought about going home. Impossible. "We're in big trouble," he said.

"I knew that the first time I saw you," she said. "If my uncle finds out, I'm a goner. Milk and honey?"

"Sounds good."

Suzanne handed him a steaming mug. "I just don't get it," she said.
"How can anything that feels that right be wrong?"

"I don't know," Oliver said. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-seven."

"I'm thirty-six."

"Perfect," Suzanne said. Oliver sipped his tea. The room was comfortable—clean and furnished simply.

"Leaving isn't going to get any easier," he said, a few minutes later.

Suzanne got to her feet quickly. "I know." Oliver took another swallow of tea and put his mug down slowly. He stood. Suzanne came into his arms, tucking her head against his shoulder. He buried his face in her hair, breathed deeply, and squeezed her. Her hair smelled of mint.

"Don't worry," she said. "I'll do whatever you want." He squeezed her again in response and left, not trusting himself to look back.

He couldn't go home. He drove into the city and had a Guinness at Deweys. He called Jennifer and said that he needed strong drink after the non-alcoholic Christmas party and that he'd be back soon with a pizza.

Richard came in, and Oliver ordered another pint. "What's your definition of home?" Oliver asked him.

"Home is where you're most yourself," Richard said without hesitating.
He looked comfortably around the bar.

"Ah," Oliver said. "Not necessarily where you sleep, then."

Richard raised his eyebrows. "Not necessarily. I have two homes—at the lab and right here."

"Lucky dog," Oliver said. Richard flashed his smile. Be yourself and you are home anywhere. Oliver drank up. "Well, I've got to be going."

"Have a good holiday, Oliver."

"You, too."

"You smell like Deweys," Jennifer said, when he walked into the kitchen. She took the pizza from his hands.

"Good old Deweys," Oliver said. "How's Precious?"

"Sound asleep. Oooh, it's getting chilly."

"I'll get some wood," Oliver said quickly. "Come on, Woof." They had a couple of cords stacked in the barn, cut to two foot lengths. He turned on the light and found the maul leaning against the corner where he had left it. He swung the maul and tossed the wood and pretended that Suzanne wasn't sitting in her quiet living room, pretended that nothing had happened. Woof sat attentively in the doorway. There was only the splitting, the thunk of the maul into the chopping block, the klokking sound of pieces thrown on the pile . . .

"Pizza's ready. My goodness, Sweetums, what a pile!" Oliver gathered up an armful.

"Should hold us for awhile," he said. Woof bounded into the house, wagging her tail. "You know," Oliver said, "we really ought to get a decent wood stove. More efficient. And if we have furnace trouble, it would be good to have something besides the fireplace."

"Maybe we could get the kind with glass doors, so we can see the fire,"
Jennifer said.

"They make good ones now," Oliver said.

"Let's go tomorrow."

"Solid," he said. Little by little, normality was returning, but he had to work at it. Luckily, he didn't have to go to the hospital until Monday.

19.

Saturday morning, Oliver and Jennifer bought a stove and brought it home in the Jeep. Mark came out and helped move the stove from the Jeep to the living room in front of the fireplace. It would go in the corner when they put a chimney up for it, but, for now, they could use the old chimney. A hole for the stovepipe was waiting, covered by a decorated pie plate.

Sunday afternoon, Emma lay contentedly in her playpen near the new stove while a fire burned and Oliver watched the Patriots lose another one. Jennifer had driven in to The Conservancy for a couple of hours. Woof was outside. Verdi was curled by a window. The stove had cost a bundle, but it was worth it, Oliver thought. They charged it on one of Jennifer's credit cards.

"Da Da."

"Yes, Emma." He lifted her and held her in the crook of his arm. She looked up at him steadily as he walked back and forth across the living room. Muffled snapping sounds came from the stove. He heard the wind outside and saw bare branches moving in the trees across the lawn. The sky was gray and darkening. "Here comes the storm, Emma," he said. "Here it comes." He put her down in the playpen, turned off the TV, and played La Traviata.

Pavarotti's voice swelled through the house. "Listen to that, Emma!" He stroked Verdi and watched the lowering clouds.

Jennifer came home full of enthusiasm and plans. "Eric is having a party!"

"Hot diggety."

"It will be fun! And lots of Conservancy people will be there. I really have to go. And I think it's good for Emma."

"Well, it's that time of year," Oliver said, giving in.

"We won't stay long."

"We'll stay as long as you want," he said.

They went to bed early that night. When Jennifer reached for Oliver, he followed her lead, waited for her, and tried to stay close. He floated away and brought himself back. She was uncomplicated sexually. Thank goodness.

She rubbed his back. "Oooh, that was nice," she said. "You worked so hard on the stove. You're tired. Poor Sweetums."

"Mmmm," he said, nuzzling and hiding his face on her shoulder.
"Sweetums sleep now."

The storm dumped eight inches overnight, the first real snow of the winter. It was blustery and clearing when Oliver went outside in the morning. The Volvo was in the barn. Jennifer was staying home until the road was plowed. He cleared off the Jeep and crunched slowly down the hill. As the clouds shifted, the light changed from gray to white and back to gray. The Jeep slid around a little, not much. He had concrete blocks in the back, three by each wheel. The heater threw out a blast of hot air. Four wheel drive is great, he told the world. People were brushing snow from their cars and shoveling walks. Several waved as he passed. The first snow was always a relief.

He couldn't stop thinking about Suzanne. It would be best not to see her. When he walked into his office, the first thing that he saw was an envelope on his desk. It looked like the ones that his paycheck came in. "Oliver," was written on the front. He opened it and took out a note.

Hi. I'll understand if you don't want to see me. But if you do—I get off at noon Friday. I can go straight home and do the shopping Saturday. If you can't make it, next Friday would be good too. But if you don't want to, I'll understand. (I said that already.) Missing you. S.

P.S. Eat this note.

Oliver folded the note into a small square and buried it in his pocket. Suzanne looked up when he put his head in her door. She was dressed plainly in a white blouse. Her hair was pulled back. Her eyes were soft. "Saturday's a good day for shopping," he said.

She lowered her eyes for a moment. The corners of her mouth moved down and back, the beginning of her smile. "If you go early," she said. She was tender and proud, so compact that Oliver wanted to sweep her into his arms and keep her inside his shirt. He smiled helplessly and went back to his office. Didn't mean to do that, he said to himself. But he knew he couldn't run from her; it would be like running from himself. This thing was going to destroy him if he didn't come to grips with it, if he didn't understand what was going on.

It was a relief to sit at his desk. One thing about computer work, he thought. You can't do it and do anything else at the same time. Auditors were coming from national headquarters, and the trial balance was off by $185,000. Dan was hoping to find the problem before they arrived. It was a lot of money. Oliver wondered if it had been stolen. Was there a First Fundamentalist embezzler? He concentrated until lunch time, leaving his office only once. Suzanne drove out at noon, and he left five minutes later. He wasn't sure he could take seeing her again that day.

He drove into Portland and had lunch at Becky's, glad to be back. He stared at the booth where he first saw Francesca. It occurred to him that he hadn't checked on his brokerage account for months. He ate the last of his homefries and slid the plate across the counter.

"Had enough?" The waitress paused.

"No, but. . ."

"We've got good pie, today. Dutch apple? Banana cream?"

"Can't help myself," he said. "Dutch apple."

"Warm that up," she said, stretching behind her for a coffee pot and filling his cup with one motion. "You want that pie heated?"

"Sure." He added creamer to the coffee, relaxed, and looked at a large photograph hanging on the wall behind the counter. A wave was washing completely over the bow of a tanker. Both the ocean and the ship were muddy shades of gray. It was a gray stormy day. There were no people in sight—just the deck, battened down, waiting to rise through a crushing weight of water. A simple black frame. No caption necessary, not in a waterfront diner.

He remembered eating lunch with Maria and Elena. That was fun. Cute kids. Walking the beach with Francesca. The memories eased his mind. But this is now, he reminded himself. He set his mug down with a clunk to emphasize the point. Now. He left a big tip and walked to the brokerage office.

"Hello, Oliver."

"Myron."

"Bet you want to see your statement?"

"Only if there's anything left." Myron searched in a filing cabinet.

"Ah, here we are." He glanced over it. "Yes. Not bad." He handed it to Oliver. The balance was quite a bit lower than the last time Oliver had checked, although still higher than when they began. He looked at the detail. There were two withdrawals of four thousand dollars each. He put his finger next to them and pivoted the paper so that Myron could read where he pointed. "Yes," Myron said. "Francesca called twice. I had ten thousand in a money market fund, so we didn't have to sell any shares to meet her request."

"Good," Oliver said.

"An attractive woman, Francesca," Myron said.

"You've got that right," Oliver looked at Myron. "Do you know her?"

"I do. I grew up in Brunswick. I was three years ahead of her in high school."

"I'll be damned. How is she doing? Did she say?"

"We didn't really get into it. She sounded fine. I sent the checks to an address in Seattle."

"Well done. Thanks, Myron."

"Marriages . . ." Myron said, raising his eyebrows. "Some work out and some don't."

"Yeah," Oliver said. He looked at Myron's wedding ring. "I hope yours does."

"So far, so good," Myron said.

"Nice going with the account. If she needs any more, you know what to do."

"I'll keep some powder dry," Myron said. "See you."

Oliver stepped outside. Greenery had been wound around the lamp posts. Holiday lights were strung overhead. The sidewalks were filled with shoppers crowded between store windows and low snowbanks piled along the curb. Someone had brushed the snow from the bronze lobsterman kneeling on his pedestal outside the bank buildings.

Oliver liked The Swiss Time Shop, run by a Swiss watchmaker. He bought a ship's clock set in a handsome maple case, a present for the house.

"He says 'Ja!' and everything," Oliver told George in Deweys. "Great guy. He actually knows how to do something."

"Nice face," George said, looking at the clock.

"So, what's new with you, George?"

"Jesus, Olive Oil, the gallery owners . . ." George groaned and held his head with both hands. "They're all the same. They treat you like dirt. I just came from one—he kept me waiting for twenty minutes and then he had another appointment. This guy wouldn't know a painting from a Christmas card. I was big in California, Olive Oil, big. Why did I ever come back to this place?"

"How about the art school? Maybe teach a course or two?"

George looked at him in disbelief. "Theory, that's all they want. All the Top Bullshitters are there now, Olive Oil, talking about art. That's what they want." He shook his head. "Paint? It's no use. It's no use."

"The Top Bullshitters!" Oliver bent over laughing. "You're right. It's no use. What are you going to do?"

George threw up his arms. "I don't know. Fuck 'em. Paint."

"Let me get this one," Oliver said.

"It's no use." George pushed his empty glass across the bar. "That was a great party at your place. Eats. Bazumas."

"Jacky," Oliver said.

"And that Martha chick—the real estate chick—she wants to look at my paintings. Maybe she'll buy one."

"She's got the money," Oliver said. "Sell her a big one and go down and paint Jacky."

"I'd like to," George said. "Something about her . . ."

"Yeah," Oliver said. "Those were the days." Oliver had thought life was complicated when he used to drive over the bridge to Jacky's. " Bazumas!" he toasted.

"The finest," George said.

A pint later, Oliver reached in his pocket for tip money and felt a small thick square. On his way back to the parking garage he dropped Suzanne's note carefully into a city trash container.

20.

On Friday, Oliver left the hospital fifteen minutes after Suzanne drove out of the parking lot. It had been a tense week. He wasn't any closer to the missing $185,000, and he didn't understand what was happening to him personally. He had avoided Suzanne, although at least once a day he put his head in her door and they exchanged smiles, a moment that was a relief to both of them.

When he got out of the Jeep, Suzanne was standing in her doorway. "You remembered how to get here. Come on in." She shut the door behind him and came into his arms. "Hi, Stranger," she said.

He breathed in the familiar minty smell of her hair which was brushed out fully and freely to her shoulders. "God, you smell good." She squeezed him and stepped back.

"Let's get that coat off you." She had changed into dark brown cotton pants, a cream colored T-shirt, and a red plaid flannel shirt, unbuttoned. She hung his jacket on a peg by the door.

"You look great," Oliver said. It was the truest thing he had said all week.

"Thank you." She stopped a moment, pleased. "I put the water on. Want some tea? Some lunch?"

"Tea would be good. I'm not too hungry—maybe a piece of toast?" He followed her to the kitchen. "I've got a headache."

"I thought you looked tense. Well, you just let me fix you right up." She pointed to a chair, and he sat down. She knelt by his feet. "Boots," she said, untying the laces, "here we go." She pulled them off and led him into her bedroom. "Lie down there; I'll be right back." Oliver stretched out. He heard water running. Suzanne came in with a washcloth that she doubled and placed across his forehead and eyes. It was cool and moist. "There," she said. He felt her hands on his ankles and then his socks were drawn off. She loosened his belt and fluttered a light cover over his knees and bare feet. "There," she said again, satisfied.

Oliver was rarely sick. It was odd but comforting to be treated like a patient. He relaxed into the coolness of the washcloth as sounds floated in and out of consciousness. Suzanne moved around the house. A jazz combo started up quietly in the living room.

"Feeling better?"

"Yes."

"I'll bring the tea." She returned with mugs and two toasted English muffins on a plate. She put them on a bedside table, went around to the other side of the bed, and lay next to him, her head propped up on pillows.

They sipped tea and munched on muffins. "I like it here," Oliver said.

"It's cozy," Suzanne said.

"It's hard not talking to you at work," he said.

"I hate it," she said. She put down her mug. "We don't need to think about that now."

"No," he said, closing his eyes. She placed her hand on his chest and rubbed slow circles. Oliver sighed and surrendered to the palm of her hand and her fingertips.

"Much better," she said. Her hand moved slowly across his chest and then down over his stomach. Her fingers reached under the top of his pants and paused. He sighed again and rolled a little closer. Her hair brushed across his face, and her fingers worked downwards, quietly circling and pressing. "Oooh," she said. "We have lift-off."

Oliver took a deep breath. Impulses swirled. He reached down in slow motion and undid his pants. Then he rolled over onto his knees above her and opened his eyes. Suzanne watched him as he yanked off her pants. A knowing smile twitched at the corners of her mouth while concern and a plea for forgiveness showed in her eyes. She was wet and ready. She held nothing back, let him drive her crazy, begged him for it, and then gave a series of wondering cries as releases rippled through her body, one after another.

He withdrew, still hard, and kissed her. He lay back and stretched his arms toward the ceiling. His headache was gone. Suzanne lifted one hand a few inches and let it fall back on the bed. "Oliver?" He moved his head closer so that he could hear her. "You hungry yet?"

"After awhile," he said. He ran a finger lightly down the top of her thigh.

"Gardenburger," she murmured.

He rested his whole hand on her leg. "Gardenburger," he agreed. She smiled slightly. The devil and the angels were gone from her face. She might have been a sunset or an early morning lake. They lay quietly for a minute.

"I love it when you just take me like that."

"Mmm," Oliver said.

"All week, I don't know who I am. I get a hint, like, when you smile at me—but when you fuck me, I know." Her hand lifted again and fell over against his stomach. He patted her hand. She sighed contentedly and slid her hand down. "Oh," she said, "we've got work to do." She rolled to his side and put her open mouth on his chest. She stroked him steadily and then rolled to her back pulling him over on her. "Come on, Lover. Give it to me." She was urgent, calling repeatedly. The need built deeply and quickly, leaping into her, turning him inside out and helpless in her arms.

It was an hour later when he opened his eyes. "I was going to wake you at three," Suzanne said.

"Make that two gardenburgers," he said. "I'd better take a shower."

Suzanne cut up an onion and fried it with the burgers.

"Damn," Oliver said, emerging from the steamy bathroom, "onions!" He was still waking up. Suzanne was dressed again. Oliver sat at the kitchen table to eat, but he couldn't take his eyes from her breasts. They were just right, hanging and swelling under her T-shirt; they were perfect for his mouth, like pears, but so much better. "God!" He shook his head. "You are too much."

Suzanne flushed. "Is that going to hold you?"

"Terrific," he said. He ate quickly and stood. "I've got to go."

"Hold on." She came close and picked a blonde hair from his shirt.
"Don't want you getting caught."

"No," Oliver said.

"Will you come back?" she asked softly.

"Are you kidding? As soon as I can."

She hugged him as though he were breakable. "I'll be waiting." It was almost an apology.

He ran one hand down her hair and the compound curve of her back. "Save that kiss for next time," he said.

"That one and a couple more."

He left with difficulty and drove home. Jennifer was on a day trip to see her mother; she wouldn't be back with Emma until six or so. Woof met him at the door, sniffing at his clothes with extra interest. "Just between us," Oliver said, rubbing her ears. He changed clothes immediately. By the time Jennifer and Emma got home, he had baked an acorn squash, started a fire, done two loads of laundry, and split more wood. Celtic music was playing.

"Mother says hi. Precious was very good, weren't you Precious?" Oliver took Emma. "Doesn't it smell good in here!"

"Dinner's all ready."

"Oh, and a fire. How nice to be home. Let's turn that music down a little."

"Da Da."

Oliver pushed Suzanne to the back of his mind, struggling for time to understand or to outlive what was happening. Early the next morning, he cut a Christmas tree in the woods behind the house. He bought lights and a tree stand at K-Mart. By noon, they were hanging tinsel on the tree, and Jennifer was telling him that she could finally get some really nice decorations. Rupert had never wanted to bother with a tree.

At one-thirty, they walked across a graveled driveway in Falmouth and knocked on Bogdolf Eric's door. Oliver was carrying Emma; Jennifer held a canvas bag containing a fat beeswax candle and two bottles of wine, a Chardonnay and a Merlot.

"Ah, Jennifer!"

"Eric," she said, handing him the bag and accepting his hug at the same time.

"And here we have Oliver and Miss Emma," he said, disengaging.

"Merry Christmas, Bogdolf."

"Oh dear, I'm afraid—no Bogdolf today. The Lore Keeper is—in the field." He laughed heartily. "You'll just have to put up with plain old Eric. Come in. Come in."

"Woofy is just wonderful," Jennifer said. "She's the nicest dog I ever had."

"Oofy," Emma said.

"Isn't she, Precious? Yes, she is."

"A great dog—Eric," Oliver said.

"Yes." Eric nodded wisely. He looked into the bag. "Now, what have we here?"

"For immediate consumption," Oliver said.

"Good!" Eric said.

He's a jerk, Oliver thought, but he's a friendly jerk. Several of Jennifer's friends were already there. In an hour the house was full of people Oliver hadn't met. Jennifer moved happily from group to group. There were many children under ten years old, and there was much discussion of Montessori and Suzuki methods. The men talked about business and boats. Oliver wasn't put off by boat talk; he liked boats, had grown up around them, but he had never needed to own one, had never wanted to pay for one. These skippers were all cruising in the same direction: bigger is better. The business they talked was really about people. No one seemed interested in how to do anything—just in who said what to whom during the endless reshuffling of executive ranks.

Oliver knocked down as much of the Merlot, a good bottle, as he decently could. There was a sharp cheddar, Havarti, Brie, a salsa, an avocado dip, baby carrots, and various kinds of chips. As he ate and drank, the conversations around him blurred together, so that he caught the intent but not the detail, a more relaxing state. He had a small Dewars and refrained from asking Eric to release the Laphroiag from its hiding place. He began to see large wind-up keys protruding from the backs of the guests. I must have one too, he thought, but set for a different kind of motion. These guys would march back and forth in front of the yacht club, six steps one way and six steps the other, until they wound down.

He stepped outside and explained his key theory to a woman who was smoking in front of the garage. She was thin with large dark eyes and a high-strung manner. "I'm more of an all-terrain guy. Take it slow; keep going until your hat floats."

"I got the other woman key," she said in a surprising husky voice. "I go in a straight line and turn around and no one's there. After awhile, I do it again in a different direction."

"Shit," Oliver said sympathetically.

"It has its moments," she said, flicking ash from the end of her cigarette.

"What's your name?"

"Marguerite."

"I'm Oliver."

"I know."

"You do? How?"

"Everyone does. You're the short one who married Jennifer and saved her from Rupert. Cute kid, by the way."

"Aha," Oliver said. That explained the identical looks of comprehension he received when Jennifer introduced him to her women friends. He is short, they were thinking. "Emma. Yes," he said to Marguerite. "Thanks. What's it like—being the other woman?"

"Well, you do the heavy support work, and she gets the house."

"Damn," Oliver said. Marguerite finished her cigarette.

"Do you smoke, Oliver?"

"I try to stick to drinking," he said, finishing his whiskey.

"Guess we better go inside and reload," she said. She turned her back to him and bent over. "Wind me up, would you?" Oliver laughed and put his fist on her back. He rubbed five vigorous circles.

"There you go," he said. "My turn." Marguerite cranked him up, and they went laughing back inside the house.

Oliver was getting a pretty good buzz. Lots of water, he instructed himself as he poured another drink. Jennifer was sitting in an armchair with Emma in her lap. Oliver drifted to one side of the room and looked at books—Joseph Campbell, Robert Bly, biographies of lesser known New Age gurus. A voice caught his attention and he glanced at a tall man telling a boat story. It was Conor. A well padded blonde stood by his elbow and patted his arm when he said, "It wasn't my graveyard." Conor scanned the horizon for approval. Oliver had just time to go neutral and stop staring. He was startled. It was as though Francesca might be right around the corner. He went over to Jennifer who suggested that they think about leaving—Emma was tired. Oliver agreed and then edged up to the group where Conor was comparing investments with another handsome salesman type.

There was a pause in the conversation, and Oliver asked, "Do you know
Myron Marsh?"

"Marshmallow? Sure," Conor said. "I used to have resources with him.
Too conservative for me. You've got to step up to the plate—uh . . .
Have we met? I'm Conor."

"Oliver."

"Up to the plate, Oliver." He looked down, charming, sorry for Oliver who was too short to hit it out of the park.

"Ah," Oliver said.

"Myron's a good man," Conor said, "known him for years."

"Good man," the other guy echoed.

"I like him," Oliver said. "I guess I'm conservative."

"Nothing wrong with that." Conor swept his arm expansively, making room for conservatives.

"The next generation's asleep," Oliver said, pointing to Emma. "Got to pull anchor, head for port. Nice talking with you."

"Standing clear," Conor said. Oliver felt a rush of relief that Francesca had left the guy. Marguerite caught his eye. She raised her eyebrows, amused. Complicated, Oliver thought, easier to go home.

Jennifer made an effortless series of goodbyes, impressing Oliver with her skill once again. "Farewell, Eric," he said to the host.

"Merry Christmas, Oliver."

It was dark and much colder as they settled into the Volvo and drove home. "What a great party," Jennifer said. "You know, I was talking to Mary. If you're tired of bouncing around, I think you could get a good position at Tom's bank. She said he was looking for someone to come in and learn the ropes, take over as MIS officer."

"Do I look like the officer type?"

"If you don't, no one does. It doesn't have anything to do with height.
You were having fun with Marguerite."

"Yeah, I like her. What's her story?"

"Poor Marguerite, she's had—unfortunate affairs. I really don't know what men see in her. She's awfully skinny."

"Well," Oliver said, "she's sympathetic."

"Too sympathetic," Jennifer said. "She ought to pick some nice guy and get on with it." Get it on, Oliver started to say, but didn't. "It was so nice to see all the children playing," Jennifer continued. "Wouldn't it be wonderful for Emma to have a little brother to play with?" She reached over and rubbed his leg.

"Get on with it, you mean?"

"Oh Sweetums! Of course not! Not like that. But it would be nice, wouldn't it?" She kept her hand on his leg.

"Yes," Oliver said. "Seems like yesterday that Emma was born."

"It does," Jennifer said enthusiastically.

Oliver took one hand from the steering wheel and rested it on top of Jennifer's. "Merry Christmas," he said. "Merry Christmas, Emma." He looked over his shoulder at Emma, buckled into her car seat, serene, half asleep. "I love Emma."

"And me?"

"And you," he said. It was true, but why did his heart sink after he said it? There were loves and there were loves. He patted her hand and corrected a small skid.

21.

Oliver enjoyed Christmas in the new house. He talked to his mother and his sister on the phone, took pictures of Emma in front of the tree, and made another bookshelf for the living room. Jennifer eased up on the little brother plan, accepting his suggestion that she might not want to be heavily pregnant in July. "A little pregnant would be fine," she said. Oliver agreed—a three or four month delay. He tried not to think of Suzanne. He decided to skip the coming Friday visit.

Tuesday, at work, he handed Dan a picture of Emma. "Pride of the
Prescott's," he said.

"Chip off the old block. Does she program yet? A cutie! She'll keep you busy."

"She will. How was your holiday?"

"Fine. My brother came for a couple of nights. Lots of music, good eats." Dan patted his stomach. "Have to work it off. Any luck with the trial balance?"

"Not so far."

"Well, if you can't find it, you can't find it. Month to month, we're doing fine; the numbers aren't getting worse. I've got to find Vi." He raced away at Dan speed.

Oliver took a deep breath and walked down the hall to Suzanne's office. She looked at him, glad and appealing. "Friday . . ." he started. She blushed.

"I've got something to show you at the house," she said.

"Good," he heard himself say. He stood there, grinning, amazed at himself. "Friday," he confirmed. He went back to the computer—happy but frightened. He couldn't make excuses; he had to see her. Don't panic, he told himself. Just stay for a couple of hours and go to Deweys for a Friday night drink with the boys. Go home smelling of Guinness and cigarettes . . . He was skidding, losing control. He plunged into the hunt for the missing money with renewed determination.

Computer programs evolve and become more complicated over time. This accounting package had been in place for eight years. Many new versions had been installed and much had been changed to suit this particular hospital. It would take too long to set up a parallel test system, and it probably wouldn't help, anyway. The best hope for fixing programming problems is to catch them when they happen, when there are clues to help in the search. The monthly trial balance is off—why? What changed last month? A weird data situation? A new program? Modifications to an old program? But in this case, the accounts had drifted out of balance over a six-month period, nearly two years earlier. The imbalance had remained constant since then. Either the problem had been fixed, or it was still there and might or might not happen again.

Naturally, the previous programmer hadn't bothered to keep a log or make comments in the programs. Typical. Oliver was used to cleaning up after other programmers. In fact, their mistakes were the source of half his work. Still, it annoyed him that they didn't take time to do the job right; comments made life easier for everyone.

On Friday, he told Dan that he didn't think he could find the problem.
"Not unless it starts happening again."

"It's not worth spending any more time on it," Dan said.

"What will the auditors do?"

"I don't know. Fudge it, probably. Create some kind of miscellaneous adjustment account. We'll see. Oh, we got a package from IBM—looks like another operating system release."

"No sweat," Oliver said. "I'll install it after the month-end run—midnight, the 31st."

"I'll put it in the cabinet in the computer room," Dan said.

Oliver took care of loose ends until noon and waited for Suzanne to drive away. Half an hour later, she met him at her door. They clung to each other silently and then stepped inside. Oliver hung up his coat.

"So, what are you going to show me?"

She pointed to the living room. "Come see."

He followed her into the room where a quilt in the making was spread out on the rug. A roll of white cotton batting leaned against the couch. Rectangles of brown and faded gold were stitched to a neutral backing—some were small, some large, some nearly square, others long and thin. Short irregularly curved stems cut from cloth—mostly black, a few reddish brown—were sewn randomly over the rectangles, crossing over and under each other, separate, yet interlocking. He saw it suddenly. "The field! Looking down."

"Bingo!" Suzanne said. "I make a different quilt every year for the hospital benefit auction."

"Wow, I love it. What goes on the bottom?"

"I've got a piece of dark brown material."

Oliver's eyes moved around the quilt. The patterns were unpredictable, but they had a sense of purpose, a natural order. "You could live in there," he said.

"That's the idea. Want some tea?" Oliver nodded while his eyes lingered on the quilt. He went into the kitchen and watched Suzanne make tea. She was wearing faded white jeans and a long mustard colored sweatshirt that clung to her curves. So compact and modest. Where did that superb quilt come from?

"It's so good to see you," she said, putting his tea in front of him.

He looked at her intently. "God, you're beautiful!"

She sat down, considering. "My teeth are too big. I look like a bulldog." She raised her eyes to his. "I guess I'm all right from the neck down."

"You're so—connected, " he said. "Your face is like your body. Your hand is like your face."

"I'm feeling bad about this," Suzanne said. She got up suddenly and knelt by his chair. "Oliver . . ." He pushed back from the table. She buried her face in his lap, and he stroked her hair as she rocked her head back and forth.

"What?" he asked.

"Help me."

"Of course, of course I will."

"I've been so bad," she said. "I keep thinking of your little girl." She rose on her knees. Her face was lost and pleading. She reached down and undid her jeans. She pushed her jeans and underwear down over her hips and put her hands on his legs. She swallowed. "I know it's crazy." Her voice trembled. "Would you spank me, Oliver? Please?" He didn't say anything, and she placed herself across his lap. He felt foolish. He raised his hand and slapped her lightly. "Harder," she said. "Please." He slapped her harder and felt her sigh. She lifted and waited for the next blow. Soon she was whimpering and breathing harder, crying out when he struck. As he spanked her, the cries became more intense. He began to want them; he felt as though they were his—or theirs. When she collapsed, weeping, he stopped and lifted her from his knees. He stood and carried her to the bedroom. He lowered her to the bed and lay next to her, caressing her slowly.

Her face became calm. "So good to me," she said without opening her eyes. He took off his clothes and hovered over her. Her mouth was partly open, expectant. He couldn't think any more. He plunged down and into her. She quivered and took him, let him fuck her as hard as he wanted, arched under his bite, and held him while he made her his.

"Are you all right?" Oliver asked, ten minutes later.

"Does the Pope wear funny hats?"

"Suzanne?"

She rolled against him, her breasts soft on his upper arm. "Yes?"

"God, Suzanne. That was different." She put her hand on his chest and rubbed slow circles, the way she'd done when he'd had a headache. "I've been on the receiving end—a while back. But I never dished it out like that."

"How did it feel?"

"Kind of strange, at first. Then it felt good."

"I knew we were in trouble," she said. "What happened?"

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"To that relationship, when you were—receiving."

"Oh," he said. "I changed. Yi! What time is it?"

"Getting on for three."

"Baby, I've got to run. I hate to." He was already dressing.

"I know," she said.

He was gaining speed. Deweys was his only hope. He had to get there and get Suzanne to the back of his mind before he could go home. The quilt stopped him.

"Suzanne." She came naked into the living room. "This quilt is special." He thought. "It's because you are . . . And I don't mean just because you're twenty-seven and gorgeous. How did you do it?"

"I follow my heart, that's all." She looked at the quilt. "It needs a lot of work."

"I've really got to go. Damn!"

She blew him a wistful kiss. "Bye, Baby."

Oliver fled. He drove fast, hoping that speed would force him into the present, that driving would require all of his attention, but images of Jacky and Suzanne kept replacing each other in front of him. Suzanne surrendered to him the way he had surrendered to Jacky. Suzanne gave herself to him totally. Her trusting eyes put him in a powerful place. But as he swelled with strength, something else happened—a little voice whispered: take care of her; she's yours. He never felt that with Jacky or with Jennifer. They took care of themselves.

The quilt had shocked him. Suzanne was gifted. She was so sexy, so physical, so loving—how could she not have children? She deserved a good husband and family, not a misfit for a lover, too old for her, and married besides. Her breasts. God. Oliver drove faster.

"Pint of the finest," he said to Sam. His favorite spot was empty at the end of the bar. He leaned against the wall and listened to Taj Mahal playing the blues, keeping precise and honest time. He slid the empty glass toward Sam. "Let's do that again." Women. Halfway through the second pint, he said it out loud, "Women," and let go a deep breath. Deweys at that hour was securely masculine. It was understood that women were a source of difficulty, desirable though they were. Oliver glanced around the room. The man didn't exist, in Deweys, at that hour, who didn't have the scars to prove it.

He raised his glass to Mark who had just come in. "What are you going to do?" he said.

"About what?"

"Women."

"Ah, marriage," Mark said.

"It's not so bad," Oliver said. Better than the first time. Love the kid. But, Jennifer's working less and spending more. She wants to have another baby and be a full time momma. She wants to add on to the house."

"You just got the house."

"I know. What she wants to do makes sense, but it's a lot of money. Most of her friends have boats. They all have boats. Wouldn't it be nice to go sailing with Emma?" Oliver lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. "She's even got me lined me up for a good job at a bank."

"Where the money is," Mark said.

"I mean, it's not bad. It's just . . ." Oliver shook his head negatively. "Gathering clouds," he said.

"Sounds like a stripper," Mark said. "Wasn't there a famous stripper—Tempest Storm?"

"I don't need a stripper," Oliver said, suddenly pleased with himself.

"Tempest Storm," Richard O'Grady said, shuffling to the bar, bright eyed. "Volcanic!"

"Hey, Richard. What's happening?"

"Nothing volcanic—but I found a '55 T-Bird. It's a little rough. My mechanic and I are putting it in shape."

"Nice," Mark said. "It will appreciate."

"Right," Richard said. "If it survives my niece. It's going to be a present for her eighteenth birthday."

"Would you be my uncle?" Oliver asked.

"Since she's not quite seventeen, that means I'll have to drive it for a year." Richard illuminated the universe with one of his smiles.

"Well, you want to test it out," Mark said. Oliver laughed and drank more Guinness. The room filled with the Friday crowd. He would be home an hour late. So be it. Jennifer would forgive him. Emma would give him a big smile. Woof. Verdi.

In the following months, Oliver slipped further.

Suzanne took days off, left early for the dentist, and called in sick when they couldn't stand to be apart any longer. No one seemed to notice that they were often absent from the hospital at the same time, although Molly began smiling at Oliver in a shrewd and tolerant way. "What are you smiling at?" Oliver asked her as he was leaving one afternoon.

"Mama didn't raise no fools," she said.

"I like your mama—she make biscuits, by any chance?"

"Melt in your mouth," Molly said. "Almost as good as mine."

"I want to die and wake up in Georgia," Oliver said. Molly was warning him. If she had figured it out, the rest would too.

Suzanne gave herself to him utterly. She hoped that he would make love to her when he came over, but if he wanted only to hold her or to have his back rubbed, that was fine, too. He learned about her religious beliefs. She went to church every Saturday with the Fundamentalists and did her part in their community which included a school as well as the hospital. She was good-natured about her uncle and didn't take the rules too literally. How could she and carry on with Oliver? She believed in prayer. "Every night I ask forgiveness. I ask the Lord to show me the way. I need a lot of forgiving," she said.

"You're so sweet," Oliver said.

"I can be a bitch," she said. "I just don't feel that way around you."
She lifted her face, lips parted for a kiss, and he pulled her to him.

She told him about her father, a long-distance trucker who drove away for good when she was eight. He had a drinking problem and was abusive. He lived in California somewhere, she thought, or at least he had once. Her mother remarried when Suzanne was in high school. Suzanne didn't like her new stepfather. When her mother moved out of town, Suzanne stayed behind for her last year of high school, living with her uncle and aunt. That was when she ran away with Donny, a sax player, and got a taste for jazz. She left him when she realized that his love for drugs was a lot stronger than his love for her.

She told him funny stories about Harley, who ran the local U-Haul franchise and was forever hitting on her for a date. She liked Harley. "He can fix anything." He was a Fundamentalist in good standing. "If they can put up with Harley, they can put up with me," she said.

Their relationship remained intensely physical. Oliver spanked her a few more times, but it quickly became a ritual, not a punishment. Suzanne didn't want him to hurt her. She wanted him to control her, a different matter. He felt increasingly responsible for her. He did whatever he wanted with her, sexually. She molded to his needs and became more beautiful by the week.

One afternoon, as Oliver was leaving the hospital, Gifford called him into his office. "What can I do for you?" Oliver asked.

"Nothing special," Gifford said. "I wanted to check in with you. We are pleased with your work."

"Thank you. I've had a lot of cooperation from Dan and—Suzanne."

"Yes. Suzanne said that you were attentive to detail." Gifford rubbed his chin. "She's my niece, you know."

"Yes," Oliver said.

"She's had troubles in the past, but she's overcome them with hard work and the Lord's help," Gifford said. "She'll make someone a fine wife."

"He'll be a lucky guy," Oliver said.

Gifford agreed. "And how is your family?"

"Fine," Oliver said. "Fine. Emma will be walking any day."

Oliver began drinking wine every night at home, taking refuge in a jovial family life that was drifting toward the rocks. He looked stressed when he wasn't drinking. Jennifer worried about him and urged him to dump the hospital job.

"Well," Oliver said to her one evening, pouring a large glass of
Chianti Classico, "you're going to like this—they are dumping me."

Jennifer applauded. "I'll have a glass of that. What happened?"

"They were ordered to. The auditors did a solid job—took them weeks, remember?"

"I do," Jennifer said. "There, Precious."

"Dan was right about the missing money. They didn't think anything of it, said it was well within reasonable limits. Can you imagine, $185,000? They treated it like fifty cents. What do you think happens at General Motors? My God, millions must get screwed up every month." He clinked glasses with Jennifer. "Here's to the miscellaneous adjustment. I still don't know whether it was stolen. I doubt it, somehow."

Oliver cut off a piece of cheddar. "Anyway, they took the books back to headquarters, and today they ordered us to switch to a different software package, one that will be standard at all their hospitals. Centralized control. No more local programming. Bye, bye, Oliver." He waved his glass.

"Bye, bye," Emma said. Jennifer hugged her.

"I'm about done now, really. A couple of reports, one more operating system revision . . . I'm a little sad about it. It's surprising how you get to like people. I mean, the Fundamentalists are nutso with all their rules, but they do a lot of good. If you're an overweight single parent with three children, no education, and no job, they'll find a place for you. They work hard, and they help each other. Dan is a really nice guy. And . . ." he stopped. "I just remembered—I have a present; it's in the Jeep. I was going to surprise you."

Oliver returned from outside carrying Suzanne's quilt. "I couldn't resist," he said. He unfolded it and held it up. "It was on display for a month at the hospital, one of the items for their benefit auction. It's handmade. I kept seeing Emma sleeping under it, so I made a bid and got it."

"Oooh," Jennifer said. "Ooooh, Precious, look what Daddy got for you!"

"Do you like it?" Oliver asked.

"It's beautiful," Jennifer said.

"That's what I thought."

"Who made it?"

"Suzanne—you know, the woman I told you about who has been so helpful. See? Look down here." He pointed out a tangle of stems in one corner where "SUZANNE" had been stitched in a way that made the letters look like part of the growth. "See there?"

"Oh, I see it. How clever!"

"It's a field," Oliver said.

"How much did you bid?"

"You don't want to know."

"That much? Oh well, I suppose it's for a good cause."

"Right," Oliver said. "Emma." He scratched his head and drank more
Chianti. "Money. What was that guy's name? The bank guy?"

"Tom. I'll call Mary tomorrow and check it out."

Oliver felt his insides contract. "Guess it can't hurt," he said. He folded the quilt.

"Da Da," Emma said.

"It's a quilt for you, Special One."

"Sweetums, next weekend . . ."

"Yes?"

"It's Daddy's birthday and Mother is having a major party, Saturday night."

"That's nice," Oliver said dutifully. "Can't make it though."

"How come?"

"Saturday is the 31st, month-end. It's the only time I can install those damn operating system changes—after the monthly reports and backups and before any new transactions."

"Oh dear."

"It's my last responsibility, the last round-up."

"Well, Daddy will understand. I'll take Precious down Saturday morning and come back Sunday afternoon. I hope the roads aren't bad."

"Don't go if they are."

"We'll see. Time for nighty-night, Precious. Da Da got you a lovely quilt."

22.

Oliver adjusted his tie. The blue blazer that Jennifer had bought fit well. "You look wonderful," she said, brushing non-existent dust from his shoulder, her face happy behind him in the mirror. The oxford-cloth shirt was soft and expansive. His gray wool slacks were tightly creased. His shoes gleamed. Her creation. "Now don't be late."

Oliver turned and saluted. "Aye, aye . . . Jennifer, I don't know about this."

"You'll like Tom. He's a dear."

"I'll probably stop in for a pint, after. I'll be back by seven."

"We'll eat late. You look just right."

Oliver drove into Portland and parked in the Temple Street garage. The downtown high-rise buildings were all banks now. The highest points in the city used to be church steeples, Oliver thought. Now, all you see up there are bank signs.

He entered the dark and ornate lobby of Pilgrim's Atlantic. Money was taken seriously here. He looked for the elevator. "Topside," Tom had said.

When the elevator doors opened at the top floor, Oliver was disoriented by the orange carpet, the color-coordinated flowery wallpaper, and the sunny windows. A well-built maternal receptionist smiled from behind an antique table. Where was he? He returned her smile. Two silver-haired executives approached and passed each other in the center of the large room. They had magnificent chests and sun-bronzed features. They nodded antlers and continued on their separate paths to polished doors.

Oliver stared, entranced. A red-haired assistant wearing a tight skirt and a close-fitting white blouse came from behind a corner and followed one of the executives into his office. In front of her, she held a silver tray. There was a glass of milk on it and a small plate of cookies. Nursery school, he thought, and started to laugh. The power floor is a nursery school!

"Do you have an appointment?"

"Yes, ha. Yes. Tom Alden. Three o'clock."

"You must be Mr. Prescott."

"Oliver."

"Please make yourself comfortable. Mr. Alden will be with you in just a moment. May I get you a refreshment?"

"Ah, that's very nice of you. Let's see." Take your blouse off. Laphroiag. A ticket to anywhere . . . "Coffee—cream, no sugar, if you would." The woman pressed a button and spoke softly. Oliver sat on the edge of a love-seat and considered the reading matter on a coffee table: Fortune, The Rolls Royce, and a copy of The Economist. The redhead appeared at his side, bending fetchingly as she set down a cup and saucer. "Thank you," Oliver said sincerely.

"Oliver? How good of you to come." Tom, a slimmer darker trophy elk, smiled winningly and shook hands. "How's that coffee? It's Pilgrim's blend; we have it roasted to our specs. Margaret, we'll be tied up for awhile. If Jack Dillon calls, tell him I'll get to him by four. Thanks. Come on in, Oliver." He patted Oliver warmly on the shoulder. "How's Jennifer?"

"Fine. She sends her best, by the way."

"Good. Good." Tom opened one of the polished doors and ushered Oliver into his office. The harbor spread out before them. A ferry was halfway to Peaks Island.

"Nice view," Oliver said. "I love the look of those ferries."

"One of the better perks," Tom admitted. "The town is growing fast. I hope we aren't overstressing the harbor."

"Often a subject of discussion at our house," Oliver said.

"Jennifer does good work with The Wetlands Conservancy. We do what we can to help. Jacky Chapelle, one of ours, used to be on their board. You know Jacky?"

Oliver felt his room to maneuver slipping away. "Yes," he said innocently.

"One of our best, Jacky. We took her on at a lower position and made quite a career for her. We take care of our own at Pilgrim." Tom swiveled around to face Oliver more directly. "Why do you want to come aboard, Oliver?"

"Pilgrim has an excellent reputation," Oliver said.

"We're the can-do bank," Tom said, smiling. "Didn't Mary tell me you guys have added to the crew?"

"Yes," Oliver said. "Emma. She just had her first birthday." He shook his head, letting Tom see that he appreciated the gravity and the wonder of it.

"Mary and I have twins. The future becomes—more important," Tom said.
Daddy would love this guy.

"You want to do your part," Oliver said.

"I'll be honest with you," Tom said, leaning forward, "we're looking for a good man for our MIS position. We need someone who can handle challenge, take on responsibility. Technology is changing fast, Oliver; Pilgrim must change with it. We're a large organization, but we keep a small turning radius. That's how we stay in front of the competition. Teamwork. You know—in the last analysis—business is all about people." He stopped to gauge Oliver's enthusiasm. Underneath all the nautical bullshit, Oliver sensed a fairly sharp guy, hard-working anyway.

"I can do the work," he said. "But it would take me six months to get up to speed."

"We've got four," Tom said.

"What are weekends for?" Oliver asked. That got him the job. That and the Jennifer connection and some boat talk.

He walked to Deweys and was greeted loudly by George. "Olive Oil, my God!" George waved at Oliver's blazer, slacks, and shiny shoes. "What have you done?"

"Pilgrim Atlantic is taking me aboard," Oliver said.

"My God . . . Is the money that good?" George's eyes gleamed.

"Money's good. It gets better if you keep your mouth shut and work sixty hours a week. I haven't actually started. I just came from the interview, but it's a pretty sure thing. I'll buy." Sam set two pints in front of them.

"Maybe it won't be too bad," George said. "Lot of women in there."

"All very well for you, George. I am a man with responsibilities."

"I see them going in. They look like they're going to jail. I want to save them, carry them away on a white horse." George shook his head sadly. "I can't afford a horse."

"There aren't any white horses left," Oliver said. "Silver was it." He raised his glass to the impossibility of it all. "How's the painting?"

"I'm taking a break from painting, working on a sculpture. I'm doing a golden cockroach." George's face changed when he talked about his projects. His big smile and round eyes were upstaged by his prominent forehead and the bones in his cheeks. His mouth went from boyish to disciplined. "Intelligent," he said. "Indomitable. King of the cockroaches."

"Too much. What's the King doing?"

"He's poised, feeling with his antennae, sensing his direction."

"I like it," Oliver said.

"Yeah, come over and see it."

"We talked about Friendship sloops," Oliver said, after a swallow of
Guinness. "They're big on boats at Pilgrim Atlantic."

"Boats!" George shook his head wonderingly.

"Actually, I like them," Oliver said, "I wouldn't mind trying to make one some day. There was a dinghy that belonged to a neighbor of ours where I grew up. It was very light on the water. Light—but curved and strong—like a winter oak leaf that had drifted down. Herreschoff. It was a Herreschoff dinghy. He was the Mozart of boat designers."

"Like to see that," George said.

"It was white," Oliver said. "Always seemed freshly painted. Owl, my stepfather, liked boats. He died in one, or—off one. Graceful things are stronger than they look. He told me that once. It's almost a definition."

"Easy to see. Hard to make," George said.

Two pints later, Oliver slapped George on the back and walked to the parking garage. It occurred to him, as he drove home, that he had forgotten Pilgrim Atlantic for a whole hour.

In the morning, Jennifer was up early. Oliver carried Emma out to the
Volvo and secured her in the car seat. "Be careful," he said to
Jennifer. She kissed him quickly and lowered herself behind the wheel.
"Regards to all," Oliver said. "Wish your father a happy birthday for
me."

"I will." Her eyes lingered on his face. "Go back to bed," she said, worried. "You've got a long day ahead."

"Last one at the hospital," Oliver said.

"See you."

"See you. Bye, Emma." Emma smiled for him, and Jennifer took off down the driveway, too fast, as usual. Oliver went back to bed for an hour.

He stayed around the house, split wood, and organized his tools. He watched a basketball game and took a nap. His plan was to start the day over again around eight in the evening, eat breakfast at a diner, and be at the hospital in time to make sure that everything was ready at midnight for the operating system revision. With luck, he could be at Suzanne's by one or one-thirty in the morning. "I know you need to be good on Saturdays," he had said to her. "But it will be Sunday. I can actually stay all night, for once." Suzanne thought for a second.

"If I'm in bed, the door will be open," she said. Oliver felt a jolt of electricity, remembering.

He looked around the house and ruffled Woof's ears. "See you tomorrow. So long Verdi—wherever you are." He drove away in the dark and began collecting himself for computer work.

His schedule was perfect. The reports ran correctly. He made an extra set of backups and had time to clean out his desk before midnight. The operating system went in without a hitch. Shortly after one, he eased up Suzanne's driveway.

Her lights were on.

"Hi, there," he called softly as he stepped inside. She came immediately to the door and held open her arms. "Mmmm, you look sleepy," Oliver said.

"I've been reading, mostly, waiting for you. I took a nap after church.
Are you very tired?"

"Not really. I took a nap, too."

"Want some tea? I have one strawberry jam left from last summer."

"Love some." He stepped back and looked at her white bathrobe. "Does this come off?"

"Pull here," she said, offering him one end of the cotton belt.

"Later," he said. "I was just curious what was underneath."

"I am underneath," she said. They had tea and toast in the kitchen.

"Your quilt is a big hit."

"Oliver, you spent too much."

"I had to have it for Emma."

"The church will find good use for the money."

Emma. The church. They fell silent. It was late and still. There were no distractions. Suzanne turned toward Oliver. Her face was rueful and sweet and helpless. He slapped her hard, turning her head sideways. It was like a snake striking.

She turned her face slowly back to him. A tear welled up in each eye.
Oliver's mouth was open in shock. "Suzanne . . ." he said, horrified.

"It's all right, Baby," she said. The tears slid down her cheek. "You can hit me again, if you want to. It would only help me remember you."

"No, no! I never want to hit anybody again, let alone you. I don't know what happened."

"It's the strain of what we're doing. I feel it, too." She was speaking the truth for both of them. She was braver than he was. "We have to stop," she said.

"It's true," Oliver said. "Suzanne," the words came in a rush, "you would be such a wonderful mother. You are so special. You deserve better." A bitter wind was tugging at his heart. "You're right—we have to stop." He stood up. "This is hard. Better to get it over with."

"You have been so good to me," she said, standing slowly. "Maybe the Lord's going to let me get away with one." She came to him, and their mouths met—a long gentle meeting. As they pulled apart, Oliver realized that they were separating as equals. He felt a ripping in his chest. He walked quickly to the door and took his coat from the peg. Suzanne stood in the center of the room. She was crying, but her face was clean and shining.

"Bye, Oliver," she said. "Don't feel bad."

He couldn't speak, could only acknowledge her and try to thank her with a helpless wave. He went out the door without putting on his coat and drove away without looking back.

The wind in his chest began to howl. He gripped the steering wheel tighter. Suzanne was right. She was right. He turned south on the main road. He was right, too, to go—before they got caught, before she was seriously hurt. She would get over him. She had a lot going for her.

The wind howled louder. It was like a dark angel blowing through him. He had never hit a woman before. He hadn't known he was capable of it. The dark angel was telling the truth, blowing him down the road. He had to set Suzanne free. She was better off without him in the long run. She sensed that, too, although they hadn't talked about it directly. They were a perfect match physically, and he loved her, but they were just too different. He banged the wheel with one fist and hung on as the angel blew harder.

Enormously harder. Jennifer. He had to leave her, too. Free everybody. Oh, no! Emma. Emma. He hit the wheel again and shook his head, but the angel wouldn't let him alone. "Do it now," he told himself. "Do it now. While you can." Could he?

Yes—if he kept going. The truth kept blowing through him. He couldn't have continued, otherwise. He bounced to a stop in front of his house, went inside, turned on all the lights, and played La Traviata at top volume. He put his toolboxes in the Jeep and covered them with a tarp. He dumped his clothes in piles on the back seat, shoes and boots on the floor. He filled a cartridge box with cassettes and put it in the front seat with the George Nakashima book. He gathered bathroom stuff together and remembered his briefcase and the file box where he kept his credit card information, the brokerage agreement, bank statements, and his passport. He put these in the front of the Jeep and took another look around the house. He added a flashlight and a picture of Emma to the pile in front. Woof and Verdi watched uneasily.

He made a mug of black tea and sat at the kitchen table with a pen and a pad of paper.

"Jennifer, I have to leave. I just realized it. It's better to do it now while you're away. I don't think I could if Emma were here. I can't give you the life you want and that you should have. It will be better for Emma, too, in the long run. I am very sorry to cause you this pain. You have been nothing but sweet to me, and you deserve better. I don't know where I'm going, but it won't be anywhere around here—so you don't have to wonder if I'm going to come driving in. Take care of Emma. I couldn't do this if I didn't know it was best for everybody.

"Here is enough to keep you going for three months. I'll send more as soon as I can. You can have the house and everything else. I just took my tools and clothes. I'm sorry. Oliver"

He wrote a check and left it on top of the note. He washed the mug and left it on the dish rack. Woof made a whimpering sound. Oliver patted her. "Take care of everybody," he said.

Verdi sniffed at the door. "You want to come with me?" Oliver asked, suddenly hopeful. He opened the door and watched Verdi stalk around the end of the house. "No. You're better off, here." He turned out the lights and drove down the hill. "So long," he said.

A band of gray was lightening in the east. The wind was still blowing through his chest but without the angriest gusts. He thought of stopping at Becky's in Portland, but he couldn't face leaving another familiar place. It was better to drive. Drive where? South. That's where people go when they leave Maine. Down the turnpike. He pulled off at the first rest stop and nodded at a trucker who was walking back to the parking lot. Take a leak, a cup of coffee. Go.

23.

Oliver stopped for breakfast in Chelmsford and then made it south of Worcester before his adrenaline burned down. Massive numbness lay ahead like a fog bank. Stop, he told himself. He found a motel and asked for a room. "Sure thing," the desk clerk said. "That'll be six hundred bucks."

"What!"

"April Fool." The clerk fell over the counter, laughing.

"That's me," Oliver said.

He slept all afternoon, ate at a Burger King across the road, watched the news, and fell asleep again without ever really waking up.

The next morning, he stared over a cup of coffee and tried to get organized. It was Monday. Jennifer and Emma were home. The damage was done. Suzanne. What a peach she was. He wrote to her, thanking her for being wonderful. It wasn't just you, he told her. He had to leave Jennifer, too. Suzanne would understand that intuitively. He wrote that he didn't know where he was going, but that he wouldn't be back anytime soon. He asked her to send his last check to Jacksonville, Florida, care of General Delivery. He signed it "Love, Oliver." Spring was a good time of year to go down the coast. He wanted to get far from Maine.

He called Myron and asked him to send a check for ten thousand dollars to the same address. "No problem," Myron said with admirable restraint. "Do it this afternoon."

"Thanks." Oliver paused. "Any word from Francesca, lately?"

"Not since those two withdrawals."

"I guess that's good," Oliver said. "I'll be in touch."

"I'll be here," Myron said. Oliver hung up, relieved. He had no plan; he was still numb. Might as well change the oil in the Jeep, he thought. Get something done.

While he waited for the car, he wrote to his mother, telling her that the marriage was over. Nobody's fault, he assured her with Arlen's words. He didn't want her to be surprised by the news if she happened to call Jennifer. Nor did he want to stop in Connecticut and explain in person. He needed to be alone and somewhere else. His mother would understand, although she would be upset. She acted on her feelings; she knew what it was like, the necessity of it. She must have once written a note to Muni that was similar to the one he had left for Jennifer. He felt more sympathy for each of them.

He stayed another night in the motel. The desk clerk directed him to a Chinese restaurant down the road where he ate silently and noticed that he had no desire to drink. He was still numb. Eating and breathing and sleeping seemed all he could manage.

By mid-afternoon the next day, Oliver was in Jacky country. The light was different in Maryland—flatter and more open. It was full spring. As he approached the turnoff to the town where Jacky lived, he admitted to himself that he was not going to stop. It was comforting to think of her. Their passionate relationship had run its course, served its purpose, and, in the end, had left no bad feelings. She was his friend. Be true, she had told him at the housewarming. Well, he had been. For better or worse. Now he needed to be alone. "Be true!" he called out the window as he passed the turn. Leaving Jacky's, he thought—it must be time for Willy Nelson. On the road again . . .

Oliver drove steadily, stopping early, and taking walks at the end of each day. His mind remained knotted in Maine. He went over and over conversations with Jennifer. She had been consistent, always herself—cheerfully ambitious, social, not right for him. He tried not to think about Emma.

Three mornings later he found the Jacksonville Post Office. Myron's check was there; Suzanne's was not. He endorsed the brokerage check for deposit and mailed it to his bank. What to do next?

He was feeling more rested. He'd gotten into the rhythm of traveling and didn't want to wait around for the other check. He bought a road atlas and flipped through the maps over a cup of coffee. Key West looked interesting. Oliver had never been all the way down the coast. But then what? He pictured himself doing a u-turn and driving back up the length of Florida. I think I'll hang a right, he decided. Arizona. Tucson. That ought to be different.

He left a forwarding card at the Post Office and turned west. As he settled into the drive to Tallahassee, he let out a sigh and relaxed. He'd made the right decision, although he didn't know why.

The lush green South eventually gave way to the Texas plains and then the dry highlands of New Mexico. There was something elemental and down home about New Mexico that was similar to Maine, Oliver found. The Indians were impressive—silent and aware, not unlike the Japanese in that respect. New Mexico wouldn't be a bad place to live.

Tucson was a small city in a basin rimmed by desert mountains. The University of Arizona was a modern oasis in the center. Suzanne's letter was waiting at the Post Office—a check and a note:

Oliver,

Everything is the same except you're not here. I miss you. Don't worry about me—I'll be O.K. in a couple of months. There will always be a place in my heart for you. Please be careful. All my love,

Suzanne

His heart twisted. He was recovered enough to feel bad. That was better than feeling nothing, he supposed. Oliver mailed the check to his bank and considered what to do. He was far enough from Maine and had been gone long enough so that he was beginning to realize that he didn't live there any more. He rented a motel room and decided to eat in a real Mexican restaurant, if he could find one. He asked around and was told to drive out East Speedway and look on the left. Fairly far out along a strip of gas stations, discount stores, and used car lots, he spotted a substantial wooden building with a restaurant sign.

He parked and walked inside to another sense of time and space. The dining room was cool and dark, purposefully shaded from the sun by old timbers and thick walls. It was quiet. It might have been 1800 or 1600. The awareness of time stretched further back than anything he had felt in New England.

He ordered carne secca, beef flavored with intense dry spices that he hadn't before tasted. He drank tequila and wine. A stern guitar embraced the silence. At the end of the meal, Oliver had a final tequila. To his astonishment, he began to cry. Tears ran down his cheeks while he sat still, occasionally sipping his drink. When the tears stopped, he dried his face with a cloth napkin and shook his head. Much of the numbness was gone. He hurt.

For the first time since he had left Maine, Oliver wanted comfort. "Francesca," he said. He wasn't all that far from the West Coast. He could probably get to Seattle in four or five days. He had been heading there all the time but hadn't known it. He collected himself and drove back to the motel. He was in pain, but he had a plan—get to Francesca.

Three long days of driving later, he pulled into the parking lot of the hotel in Eugene where he had stayed when he had met his father. Seattle was only six hours away. The next morning, he bought a bright red shirt and a bottle of Laphroiag.

As he drove north on I5, he thought about Francesca and what to say to her. He forgot it all as soon as he found a parking place, late in the afternoon, several blocks from her address in Ballard. The city was attractive, bustling, built on hills overlooking Puget Sound. It had been hot in Tucson. Here, it was cool again, although Seattle was milder than Maine.

He locked the Jeep and walked nervously along a sidewalk. He crossed a street and passed several houses surrounded by large hedges. Children called. He stopped. Francesca was standing at the edge of an elevated lawn in front of the next house. Her back was to him. A tall man stood next to her, his arm around her shoulders. Beyond them, Maria and Elena were kicking a soccer ball. They looked older and bigger. Francesca and the guy were comfortable together, familiar. Oliver was shocked, although he shouldn't have been. Francesca was a beautiful woman.

He turned slowly and walked away, trying to get out of sight and catch his breath at the same time. He felt as though he'd been kicked in the stomach. Francesca! He'd been counting on her in the back of his mind and deep in his heart. He turned the Jeep around and drove toward the water until he reached a street that was lined with art galleries and bars. He saw a parking spot and stopped.

Oliver got out of the Jeep and walked into the nearest bar. Two pints of local ale later, he was able to stretch his legs and try to face the situation. There wasn't much to it, really. He had driven five thousand miles to get away from Maine, and he'd discovered a happy Francesca. That, at least, was good. But he was in trouble. He kept drinking.

When the bar closed, Oliver walked out and swayed on the sidewalk. He went to the Jeep and thought about rearranging things so that he could put the back seat down and sleep inside. Later, he thought. Deep need pulled him towards Francesca's house. He walked back up the hill. When he got to her house, the lights were out. He stood there, half out of his mind. He walked into the dark carport and stopped by a set of wooden steps that led to a side door. There was a doormat on the concrete floor by the steps. Oliver looked at the door, kneeled, curled on the mat, and passed out in his new red shirt.

He woke up just before dawn. The house was quiet. My God, he thought, what am I doing? He got stiffly to his feet and left as quietly as he could. He was still drunk, but he was able to drive out of the city and find a truck stop where he slept in the Jeep for three more hours.

He awoke with a bad hangover and ate breakfast shakily. Shaving wasn't worth it. He drove aimlessly south, back the way he had come. When he reached Portland, he turned toward the coast and drove with more purpose. The Devil's Churn wasn't that far from Portland.

24.

The hurt that Oliver had felt since Tucson was much worse. Being true had taken him far from everyone, had torn his connections to everything outside himself. He had always been a bit remote, distant from others, an observer; now he was completely alone. He felt an intense pain, a kind that he had never known, a gnawing and ripping internal pain from which he couldn't escape. He was being torn apart. When he reached the parking area at The Devil's Churn, he opened the Laphroiag and took two long swallows. He put the bottle on the front seat and got out of the Jeep.

The sun was setting behind a layer of low dark clouds. Oliver walked slowly down the wooden steps—slippery from spray at the bottom. The surf was high. Waves exploded up the fissure in the rocks, roaring and seething. The violent water matched his internal state perfectly. For a moment, he was suspended in an eerie calm between the two madnesses. He understood for the first time why people committed suicide. The pain hurt too much. End it.

He moved closer to the edge of the rocks. Large Waves Come Without Warning. So what? Owl disappeared in the Atlantic. One in each ocean, Oliver thought. Another wave bore in. He walked gallantly to the edge and turned to look back. His father was standing on the steps—stoic, concerned, non-judgmental. Come what may, he was with Oliver. A loud whistling sound came from the wave. Oliver took a deep breath, paused, exhaled, and followed his father up the steps.

At the top, he waved goodbye again as he had the last time Muni drove away. "So," Oliver said. He shivered and shook himself like a dog. "So." He didn't know what was ahead, but he knew that he wasn't going to kill himself. He was his father's son; he had the same tenacity; he was going to go the distance. The knowledge came from a deeper place than the pain. It gave him secure footing, a place where he could stand and bear the hurt. His father had given him life twice. He stared out at the sea and sky, wondering at the cold dark beauty of it all and feeling deeply sorry for all those who had put guns to their heads or swallowed too many pills or jumped from bridges.

It began to rain. Oliver drove back toward Portland and stopped at the first motel. The woman on duty looked at him suspiciously. He remembered that he hadn't shaved and that he'd slept in his clothes. It seemed a long time ago. "I'm all right," he said. "It's been a long trip, that's all."

When Oliver awoke the next morning, he was sober and hungry. The intense pain was gone. Only a residual ache reminded him of the storm that had almost gotten him. He took a long hot shower and dressed. Once again he had no plan, but he had something much more precious—time. He ate a large breakfast in a café and thought things over.

It was better, he decided, to stay away from Maine for a while. Let things settle down. He could help support Emma. He could see her when she was a little older—be at least a small part in her life. Jennifer would be up for that. He didn't have to work in a bank, for God's sake. He could find a part-time job or a project with some smaller group. Maybe he could set up a wood shop and make a few things. Thanks to Myron's investing, he still had most of his original stake. It was there for Emma and for Francesca, if she should need it.

Oliver paged through his atlas. He liked New Mexico. Portland, Oregon was pleasant. Seattle seemed more interesting. Honolulu? Maybe even Japan . . . But, here he was in the Northwest. He wasn't ready to see his father or his uncle. He needed to get settled first. He needed to work, to make some money. Maybe even have some sort of relationship, although he was in no rush.Sex was great, but it wasn't going to rule him any more. Sex got the job done, got the babies made. Aside from that, it mirrored the relationship—whatever the relationship was. He didn't think there would be any big surprises there. He'd been around that barn.

"Where you headed?" the waitress asked.

"Seattle," Oliver said. At least he'd have one friend there. He smiled broadly, pleased with his decision, and left a large tip by his plate.

"What'cha doing up there?"

"Starting over."

"I done that once or twice." She swept up her tip. "You're young enough. Good luck to you."

"Thanks," Oliver said. "Thanks a lot."

He stopped on the outskirts of Seattle and called Francesca.

She answered, "Hello?"

"Hi, Francesca."

"Oliver?"

"Yup, how're you doing?"

"Oliver! What a surprise! I'm fine."

"I'm in Seattle."

"No!"

"Yeah. I wondered if you wanted to have coffee or something. I don't want to be in the way or anything, but I'd love to see you. Lots to tell you."

"Oliver, of course. How could you possibly be in the way?"

"I have a confession. Actually, I came to see you a couple of days ago. It was late in the afternoon. You were standing outside your house, with your guy, and I turned around and left. I'm O.K. about it now."

"Oliver, that was my brother!"

"What?" His mind reeled.

"Yes, my brother, Giles."

Oliver vaguely remembered Francesca telling him about a brother. "Oh yeah, Giles," he said.

"He's a pilot for Delta. He comes by sometimes when he has a layover.
Can you come over now?"

"Uh, sure—be about half an hour, I guess."

"I can't believe it!" Francesca said.

"Me neither. Great! See you." Oliver walked quickly to the Jeep and drove to Ballard, struggling to adjust.

Francesca was waiting in front of the house. They had a long wordless hug. Oliver felt immediately the familiar calm that radiated outward from them, only now he seemed to take a more active part in generating it.

"You've changed," she said, stepping back and looking at him closely.

"I've caught up, I think."

"It's so good to see you."

"How are the girls?"

"Just fine. They're in school. They'll be back soon." She led him inside and gave him a tour of the house. He sat at a kitchen table and explained his situation while she made tea. Francesca didn't say anything until he finished.

"Jacky called me after your housewarming. She was worried about you."

"I like Jacky," Oliver said.

"She said Emma was a doll."

"Quite true," Oliver said.

"Oliver, where are you staying tonight?"

"I hadn't got that far yet." Oliver considered. "I don't know."

"Well, I do," Francesca said. "You're staying right here." She extended a long arm and pointed over his shoulder. Oliver turned and saw the bronze heart on a shelf, leaning against the wall. He could feel his thumb stroking the letters.

"O plus F," Francesca said softly.

"O plus F," he repeated, turning back.

He looked into her eyes—patient and amused, mysterious, the color of the inner heart of black walnut—and knew that he was home.