"Aha," Oliver said. That explained the identical looks of comprehension he received when Jennifer introduced him to her women friends. He is short, they were thinking. "Emma. Yes," he said to Marguerite. "Thanks. What's it like—being the other woman?"
"Well, you do the heavy support work, and she gets the house."
"Damn," Oliver said. Marguerite finished her cigarette.
"Do you smoke, Oliver?"
"I try to stick to drinking," he said, finishing his whiskey.
"Guess we better go inside and reload," she said. She turned her back to him and bent over. "Wind me up, would you?" Oliver laughed and put his fist on her back. He rubbed five vigorous circles.
"There you go," he said. "My turn." Marguerite cranked him up, and they went laughing back inside the house.
Oliver was getting a pretty good buzz. Lots of water, he instructed himself as he poured another drink. Jennifer was sitting in an armchair with Emma in her lap. Oliver drifted to one side of the room and looked at books—Joseph Campbell, Robert Bly, biographies of lesser known New Age gurus. A voice caught his attention and he glanced at a tall man telling a boat story. It was Conor. A well padded blonde stood by his elbow and patted his arm when he said, "It wasn't my graveyard." Conor scanned the horizon for approval. Oliver had just time to go neutral and stop staring. He was startled. It was as though Francesca might be right around the corner. He went over to Jennifer who suggested that they think about leaving—Emma was tired. Oliver agreed and then edged up to the group where Conor was comparing investments with another handsome salesman type.
There was a pause in the conversation, and Oliver asked, "Do you know
Myron Marsh?"
"Marshmallow? Sure," Conor said. "I used to have resources with him.
Too conservative for me. You've got to step up to the plate—uh . . .
Have we met? I'm Conor."