"Thank you, Oliver."
"Music," he said. He was hearing hearing strains from La Traviata in his mind. He wanted to play the opera, but he was afraid Jennifer would find it too heavy. He played a tape of Native American flute melodies echoing down a canyon. Soothing stuff.
"Oh, I love this music," she said.
"Carlos Nakai," Oliver said. "Are you hungry?" He was newly concerned. There were two of her. Check that—one of her and one of them, a new one. Jennifer looked pleased.
"I've been so upset, it's hard to tell. I think so, actually."
"I have some red beans and rice mix—no canyon greens, though." She looked puzzled. He explained, "I was thinking of the music—what would go with the rice and beans and the music—veggies from a canyon."
"You're so imaginative, Oliver."
"Frozen peas, best I can do." He waved the bag in the air. They ate and watched the news. Oliver slid a clean pillow case on the extra pillow and put a lamp on the other side of the bed. Seduction scenes were easier. They happened or they didn't in a great rush. Jennifer couldn't find a book that she wanted to read. She took a copy of Wooden Boat Magazine upstairs, and Oliver followed her awkwardly.
They lay side by side while she paged through the magazine. "I like this one." She pointed out a 32 footer at anchor in Penobscot Bay. The builder and his wife were enjoying cocktails. A golden retriever was slumped near the bow, his head between his paws.
"Nice," Oliver said. "I wonder if Verdi would like it. Remember Verdi, my cat? Verdi, where are you anyway?"