"Oh."
It was always like that; motion was Orson's answer to everything. Charlie stretched and checked his watch. The ten o'clock ferry from Peaks Island was edging to the dock. Soon a few dozen passengers would walk off the ramp, carrying shopping bags, slipping day packs over one or both shoulders, holding dogs on leashes. Margery, short and polite, would be toward the end of the line, one hand on the railing, blinking as she looked up at the city buildings and around for him.
They were similar physically and recognized each other as related, not lovers, not brother and sister, but distant cousins perhaps or members of a tribe—the patient, the witness bearers. "There you are," she said. Charlie stood and they patted one another's shoulders.
"You look very well, not a day over forty," Charlie said, standing back. "Here, let me take that." She handed him a stout canvas bag. "Jesus! What's in here?"
"Rocks and books. You're looking pleased with life. How's the world of architecture?"
"All right. Still looking for the perfect client." He rubbed his stomach with his free hand and pointed across the street to Standard Baking Company. "Croissants," he said. "A croissant a day keeps the doctor away. Are you hungry?"
"No. Let's get on with it."
Charlie led the way to his car, an elderly red Volvo. "Rocinante,"
Margery remembered.
"As good as ever." Charlie lowered the bag into the back seat.
"Could we swing by the library? I need to return these books."