"Probably run it better," Joe said. "Gorgeous view."
"We were camping out here last year, and we thought it would be the perfect place to get married."
They returned for the last of the chairs. A musician arrived carrying a guitar case and a battery powered amp. He unpacked and began plunking away at Bach and Vivaldi. A minister with a neatly trimmed beard stood by a large madrone oak. He was well dressed, quiet, and non-denominational to the point of disappearance. Joe, who was finding himself increasingly fond of people over fifty, engaged him in conversation. He looked as though he'd been created whole that morning in the image of the Northwest, but he admitted to being from Vermont. That was as far as Joe could get. The minister evaded all questions about his youth, as though he had left a bad record behind—or maybe just an uncouth one.
"Hi, stranger!" Joe turned to the familiar voice.
"Ingrid," he said, opening his arms. She advanced and held him tightly for a moment before backing away with a satisfied smile. "You are looking well," Joe said, "and don't tell me it's because of your happy sex life."
"It's the Mediterranean diet."
"Olive oil," he said. Ingrid had lost a few pounds, although she didn't need to. Her thick blonde hair was cut short and away from her even features. Her expression was practical and good-natured, dominated by eyes the color of transparent jade.
"You don't look so bad yourself," she said.
"Ah, well."
"More serious," she said, "more gray in your mustache, thinner."