11.
Francesca's note was written on a 3X5 card:
O,
Thank you.
F.
Warmth rushed through Oliver as he stared at her writing. Francesca was answering in kind; she had accepted his valentine. "What do you think about that, my friend?" he asked Verdi. "What do you think about that?" Verdi bumped against his ankle, a sign of high satisfaction. It was good to be home.
Oliver looked around the living room. The mantle was empty without the walnut box. He wished that he had a picture of Francesca to take its place. He unrolled the snakeskin and pinned it vertically to the wall by the steps, admiring the silver and ivory colors and the dark diamonds that had curled around the snake.
He went early to bed and spent a long time looking out at the night and remembering the trip: the gardens and the Japanese restaurant in Portland, Michiko standing by her moss-rock, Diamond Head, The Devil's Churn, his father's face—there had been much to see and few words. What was there to say about these things? Owl had cautioned him more than once: "Listen to what people say, but pay more attention to what they do." What would he do with the treasures of this trip?
Treasure, literally. One thing he could do was to put his father's money to work. He decided to open a stock brokerage account. He needed to get a programming project, so that he wouldn't start spending the money. And he needed to see Francesca. She was more fun to think about than job interviews; he drifted to sleep remembering her on Crescent Beach.
In the morning, he answered two job advertisements that were in the paper and then ate breakfast at Becky's. The day seemed to have started without him—jet lag. The booth where he had first seen Francesca was empty. He imagined her there and felt better, more centered.