Oliver collected his mail. Gifford Sims of The First Fundamentalist Hospital was interested in talking with him. There were a couple of bills. A Thanksgiving invitation from Amanda. "Mother and Paul are coming. Heather has been asking about you."
12.
Sunday morning was cold and windy. Oliver waited at the beach, walking back and forth in front of the driftwood log. After half an hour, he poured a cup of coffee from the thermos. Steam curled up and was blown away. He had an interview the following day at the Fundamentalist hospital; he ought to iron a shirt. Wear a tie? Francesca appeared, walking with long strides.
"Hi," she said.
"Just in time," he said, holding his cup in the air. "I was going to drink yours. What's the matter?"
"Conor and I are having trouble. God, that smells good!" Oliver handed her a cup. "Mmm—nice and hot."
"I'm sorry," Oliver said.
"I don't want to bother you about it . . ."
"It's no bother."
"Conor didn't get home until very late. I had trouble waking him up to watch the girls. I probably shouldn't have come."