"I could stand the shivering. Want some grits?"
"Read my mind," Don said.
He ate slowly, drank an extra cup of coffee, left a big tip, and got on with packing. By cocktail hour he had cleaned his room and stashed his belongings in a footlocker and a duffel bag. The easel and the painting gear stayed, part of the decor. He packed his best brushes, his watercolors, and a block of good paper. There was no limit to the number of lighthouse and/or lobster boat paintings he could sell, if they were cheap enough. The portraits and the figures were different. Drawn or done fully in oils, they were given away, or nearly. It was hard to put a price on them.
"How well you look, Don," Kai said.
"Thank you. I'm having my annual burst of optimism. Did Riles tell you that I'm off to Maine tomorrow?"
"Riles never tells me anything."
"Mother, really!" Riles appeared and put an arm around her shoulders. They were handsome together, short and dark with identical flashing smiles. Riles's hairline had receded considerably, and Kai's hair had long ago turned a tarnished silver, but they both were slim and upright and moved with a lack of effort that made Don feel as though he were dragging a wagon behind him. "I only just found out. Don is secretive, you know."
"Don is not good at planning," Don said.
"We must count on the turning of the seasons, Mother, the great migrations, to bring him back to Sherman's Retreat."
"He is not a goose, Dear." She turned to Don. "The sooner you come back, the better."