"Didn't someone write about it? Or under it?" he offered.
"Stevenson," she said. "Or was it Mark Twain?" Her eyes were intensely brown with radiating streaks of garnet.
"It's a literary banyan," Joe said.
"So, what brings you to Hawaii?"
"I used to live here," Joe said. "I stopped computer programming, and I stopped being married—again. It seemed natural to come back."
"Hawaii gets to you," she said. Winifred lived in Manoa. She was a photographer. Joe would have bet that she was some kind of artist; he found them wherever he went. Her sister lived on Queen Anne Hill in Seattle, close to Kate and the Caffe Ladro. Her father, Arthur Soule, was a professor, retired in Vermont.
"Lot of Soules on the Maine coast," Joe said. "And a Coffin clan. The line is: 'For every Soule, there's a Coffin."'
"So my father has told me."
"Win, Winifred . . . what do you prefer to be called?"
"Either works. 'Winny' is what horses do. My father sometimes calls me
Freddy."