"Daisy?"
"Yes. I'm in San Francisco . . . Wes died in July."
"I know," Joe said. "I'm sorry. I just heard. I was going to write."
"I'll be in Honolulu tomorrow. I wondered . . . "
"When will you be here?"
"In the afternoon. I'm on my way to Auckland to visit Adam—my son
Adam. I thought I would break up the trip and maybe get to see you."
She was staying at the Moana on Morgan's recommendation. They agreed to meet at five. Joe was in a mild state of shock when he put down the phone. There was no unfinished business between them. He had offered her everything he had, and she had chosen Wes. It had been clean and terrible, honest and final. Now, thirty years later, here they were again. Here, where? Deep down, he knew. His face was still buried in her hair, his lips by her ear.
"Do you know how many of us there are in the world?"
"Not very many," she said, would always say.
Joe worked the rest of the day, out of habit, but he did not sleep well.