"Tough life," Oliver said.
"He's not a happy man," she said, "at least, never for long. He uses that, too—the wounded Conor. Well, somebody tried to save him last night."
"Pretty hard on you," Oliver said.
"I married him," she said. "I'd divorce him tomorrow, but it isn't just me I have to think about."
"Damn," Oliver said. "I'd marry you the day after."
"Thank you. Would you promise to make me a cup of coffee like this first thing in the morning—for the rest of my life?"
"Or my life," Oliver said.
"Oh!" There was a tear in Francesca's eye. He thought she was going to hug him, but she turned and looked toward the water. "I've got to finish one thing before I start another," she said. "I don't think there's much point to it, but I've got to try. I'm going to go with him on this trip."
"I'll see you in the spring, then—I hope," Oliver said. "I opened that account, by the way. I don't have the number yet, but you don't need it. If you get stuck for money, call Myron Marsh at Marsh and Cooley and tell him who you are. It would probably take a couple of days, though."
"Myron Marsh . . ."