"Boats!" George shook his head wonderingly.
"Actually, I like them," Oliver said, "I wouldn't mind trying to make one some day. There was a dinghy that belonged to a neighbor of ours where I grew up. It was very light on the water. Light—but curved and strong—like a winter oak leaf that had drifted down. Herreschoff. It was a Herreschoff dinghy. He was the Mozart of boat designers."
"Like to see that," George said.
"It was white," Oliver said. "Always seemed freshly painted. Owl, my stepfather, liked boats. He died in one, or—off one. Graceful things are stronger than they look. He told me that once. It's almost a definition."
"Easy to see. Hard to make," George said.
Two pints later, Oliver slapped George on the back and walked to the parking garage. It occurred to him, as he drove home, that he had forgotten Pilgrim Atlantic for a whole hour.
In the morning, Jennifer was up early. Oliver carried Emma out to the
Volvo and secured her in the car seat. "Be careful," he said to
Jennifer. She kissed him quickly and lowered herself behind the wheel.
"Regards to all," Oliver said. "Wish your father a happy birthday for
me."
"I will." Her eyes lingered on his face. "Go back to bed," she said, worried. "You've got a long day ahead."
"Last one at the hospital," Oliver said.
"See you."