It was warm for November. The tide was out. The water was gray, stippled and flattened by light rain. The air was fertile and salty. Mist blurred the rocks. A dog barked somewhere beyond the other end of the beach. Francesca appeared suddenly, holding a black umbrella over her head. When Oliver could see her smile, he stood and smiled back.
"You made it," she said coming closer.
"Quite a trip," he said. He wanted to hug her, but jackets and hats and her umbrella made it awkward. "How about some coffee?"
"Coffee? Superb!"
Oliver sat down on the log and poured them each a mug. "Milk?"
"Mmm."
"Say when . . ."
"When."
He handed her the mug. She sat beside him and shifted the umbrella to partially cover him. "I love my valentine."
"Good. My friend, George, is an artist. He showed me how to cast it.
What did you do with it? Not that it's any of my business."