Gifford Sims called and asked if Oliver could start the following Monday. Oliver told Gifford that he'd be there bright and early. Jennifer bought a bushel of apples and another baking dish. By noon on Thanksgiving Day, most of the shelves were built and filled. The bed was remade with tan sheets that were bordered with blooming roses. Verdi was calming down, and the rain had stopped. The apartment smelled of pie. Boxes of books were stacked high in one corner of the living room. Not much space left, Oliver thought, but much more homey.
"So—Deweys later?" he asked.
"The pies are ready," Jennifer said. "I hope it won't be too smoky."
"We don't have to stay long," Oliver said.
Jennifer stood. "Nap time," she said. Oliver watched her hips swing easily around the corner of the steps. He thought of laying out the remaining shelves, yawned, and followed her upstairs.
14.
It was cold and crisp, nearly dark. A neon Guinness sign glowed through a window by the door to Deweys. Oliver shifted the box of pies to one arm and hugged Jennifer with the other. He had a momentary desire to go home and keep the news to themselves.
"Here we go," he said, opening the door. Music, warmth and the smell of ale and cigarettes poured out. Jennifer stepped in ahead of him. They stood for a moment, adjusting to the light.
"Olive Oil!"
"Hey, George. Jennifer, this is George."