"Warm that up," she said, stretching behind her for a coffee pot and filling his cup with one motion. "You want that pie heated?"
"Sure." He added creamer to the coffee, relaxed, and looked at a large photograph hanging on the wall behind the counter. A wave was washing completely over the bow of a tanker. Both the ocean and the ship were muddy shades of gray. It was a gray stormy day. There were no people in sight—just the deck, battened down, waiting to rise through a crushing weight of water. A simple black frame. No caption necessary, not in a waterfront diner.
He remembered eating lunch with Maria and Elena. That was fun. Cute kids. Walking the beach with Francesca. The memories eased his mind. But this is now, he reminded himself. He set his mug down with a clunk to emphasize the point. Now. He left a big tip and walked to the brokerage office.
"Hello, Oliver."
"Myron."
"Bet you want to see your statement?"
"Only if there's anything left." Myron searched in a filing cabinet.
"Ah, here we are." He glanced over it. "Yes. Not bad." He handed it to Oliver. The balance was quite a bit lower than the last time Oliver had checked, although still higher than when they began. He looked at the detail. There were two withdrawals of four thousand dollars each. He put his finger next to them and pivoted the paper so that Myron could read where he pointed. "Yes," Myron said. "Francesca called twice. I had ten thousand in a money market fund, so we didn't have to sell any shares to meet her request."
"Good," Oliver said.
"An attractive woman, Francesca," Myron said.