"I do," Oliver said. "It's interesting. I guess I'm more toward the patient end. Risk? I don't mind risk. But I wouldn't want to lose more than half. It's important to me that half, anyway, always be there." Myron wrote a few words on the pad.
"There are advantages to the patient approach," he said. "Taxes are lower if you hold securities long term. You can buy into promising companies cheaply—if you can give them a few years to grow."
"I like that," Oliver said. Myron made another note.
"How about if I get you started, make the first buys?"
"Sounds good."
"As time goes on and you get into it, you may want to take a more active part in making the decisions. We'll talk as we go along."
"You'll get a monthly statement."
"Just one—to me," Oliver interrupted.
"Yes," Myron added to his notes. "One statement. Call me or drop by any time."
"O.K. Thank you." Oliver prepared to leave. "When do we start making money?"
"Soon as the check clears," Myron said.
Should be interesting, Oliver thought, walking home. Myron was a realist. He didn't seem like someone who would rip you off or make hurried decisions. Porter came out the front door just as Oliver turned in from the sidewalk.
"Hey Porter, thanks for taking care of Verdi. I haven't seen you sinceI got back."
"No problem. It was a help, actually. And, it gave me a chance to get to know Arlen better." Porter beamed.
Oliver didn't want to hear any confidences. "How's the baking going?"
"Solid." Porter looked amused at Oliver's unease. "Scones are hot this year—can't make enough of them. Later, Slugger." He punched Oliver lightly on the arm and unlocked a sleek black Toyota. Oliver watched him drive away. Porter was like a character in a comic strip; a six foot scone in a thought balloon hovered over his car.
Oliver collected his mail. Gifford Sims of The First Fundamentalist Hospital was interested in talking with him. There were a couple of bills. A Thanksgiving invitation from Amanda. "Mother and Paul are coming. Heather has been asking about you."
12.
Sunday morning was cold and windy. Oliver waited at the beach, walking back and forth in front of the driftwood log. After half an hour, he poured a cup of coffee from the thermos. Steam curled up and was blown away. He had an interview the following day at the Fundamentalist hospital; he ought to iron a shirt. Wear a tie? Francesca appeared, walking with long strides.
"Hi," she said.
"Just in time," he said, holding his cup in the air. "I was going to drink yours. What's the matter?"
"Conor and I are having trouble. God, that smells good!" Oliver handed her a cup. "Mmm—nice and hot."
"I'm sorry," Oliver said.
"I don't want to bother you about it . . ."
"It's no bother."
"Conor didn't get home until very late. I had trouble waking him up to watch the girls. I probably shouldn't have come."
"Do you want to go back? I'll walk with you to the gate-house."
"O.K. Just a second. Let's enjoy this."
Oliver refilled his cup. "Getting nippy," he said.
"Snow anytime," Francesca said. She looked at him and smiled—something to share, their snow. "Conor's not been happy with me. He plays around. It's a mess."
"Oh."
"I don't know what to do. We've been talking about making a change, spending the winter in Costa Rica. He says that his job isn't going anywhere; he wants a break to decide what to do next."
"Oh." Oliver tried for a bright side. "You could practice your Spanish."
"We could argue in Spanish," she said.
"What's his problem? Not that it's any of my business."
"I don't know. Mommy, I suppose. Conor tends to think that the world owes him a living. Conor's world is 95% female. He's cute and needy and out-front about it; there's always some woman ready to give him what he wants."
"Tough life," Oliver said.
"He's not a happy man," she said, "at least, never for long. He uses that, too—the wounded Conor. Well, somebody tried to save him last night."
"Pretty hard on you," Oliver said.
"I married him," she said. "I'd divorce him tomorrow, but it isn't just me I have to think about."
"Damn," Oliver said. "I'd marry you the day after."
"Thank you. Would you promise to make me a cup of coffee like this first thing in the morning—for the rest of my life?"
"Or my life," Oliver said.
"Oh!" There was a tear in Francesca's eye. He thought she was going to hug him, but she turned and looked toward the water. "I've got to finish one thing before I start another," she said. "I don't think there's much point to it, but I've got to try. I'm going to go with him on this trip."
"I'll see you in the spring, then—I hope," Oliver said. "I opened that account, by the way. I don't have the number yet, but you don't need it. If you get stuck for money, call Myron Marsh at Marsh and Cooley and tell him who you are. It would probably take a couple of days, though."
"Myron Marsh . . ."
"He has an office on Monument Square."
"O.K. Let's go," she said.
They walked back side by side. "I like your Jeep," Francesca said when they reached the main road.
"Tried and true," Oliver said. "Room for you and the girls." She did hug him then, squeezing tightly against him. He felt her sob twice. His legs were set like granite posts. He could have held her forever. She stepped back. "Francesca," he started, but she shook her head, no, and put one hand up to his cheek. Her thumb rested across his lips and then withdrew. She seemed to be memorizing his face.
"Bye," she said.
"Bye." She turned and walked away. Oliver sighed heavily, got into the Jeep, and drove in the other direction. His feelings were careening around, but his mind was clear. He and Francesca were together, even though they were apart. What he wanted, how beautiful she was, what might happen—the rush of his feelings did not alter that fact.
He drove aimlessly, passed the mall, and headed north. In Yarmouth, he stopped for breakfast at the Calendar Islands Motel on Route 1. Two dining rooms were filled with elderly couples and the families of L. L. Bean executives. He signed for a table and waited in line. It was pleasant to stand there as though nothing had just happened. He had gotten up in his restored cape with the large addition, fed his golden retriever, and driven three miles for breakfast the way he did every Sunday. He had a slight hangover and a secure future. He was on board.
It really wouldn't be so bad, he thought—to be on board. What the hell, even a tie . . . The hostess led him to a sunny table. He ate a large plate of blueberry pancakes with a side of bacon, feeling quite the citizen, practically married, a man with responsibilities.
But—you don't know her. This wasn't true, he decided. He knew her where it mattered—in her heart. Boisverte, he knew her maiden name. What difference did it make, where she went to school or what her brother was like? Didn't she say she had a brother? Conor would never change. Why wouldn't she leave him? She would—when she was ready. He, Oliver, would be there. The waitress swished away. Nice legs, he registered. Too young, though. You can't have them all, he told himself as she disappeared into the kitchen.
When he got home, he ironed a blue oxford-cloth shirt and a pair of dress chinos. He washed the dishes and turned on the TV, mostly to avoid the temptation to go to Deweys. The Patriots lost in the fourth quarter.
The next morning Oliver was on the road in time to stop for a bagel. He made an effort to keep crumbs off his shirt and tie. He was confident that he could handle any software needs that the hospital might have; it was the group dynamic that put him on the defensive. He felt false when he made the little gestures required to fit in. He knew how, but he also knew that eventually he would be unmasked and auto-ejected from the group like a splinter from its hand. Maybe the First Fundamentalists wouldn't be so bad. Here I come, he thought. Love your neighbor. Forgive him his independence. Let's get this over with.
Gifford Sims was large. He wore a dark suit made from a lasting synthetic material. His black hair was carefully combed; his face was square and unsmiling. "Come in," he said, indicating a chair where Oliver was to sit. He rubbed his chin once and gazed out his office window at the carefully tended parking lot. He was not in a hurry to speak, but he did not seem put off by Oliver. That was one thing about being short—you didn't threaten people.
"We had someone in Boston doing the work," he said finally. "Expensive."
"Ah," Oliver said.
"She worked about twenty hours a week, sometimes more."
"I see," Oliver said.
"We don't work on Saturdays unless we have to—babies don't always fit into our schedule." Gifford swiveled from the window and watched Oliver. Hard to blame them, Oliver started to say, but he smiled instead, acknowledging the joke. It was a joke, he was pretty sure, although it was hard to tell from Gifford's expression.
"It appears from your experience that you could handle the work. Are these references current?"
"Yes, they are."
"I have no further questions." Silence. Gifford Sims, conversationalist. Oliver stood.
"Thank you for taking the time. Lovely place . . ." He waved his arm, vaguely including the hospital and the parking lot. "Well, goodbye, Mr. Sims."
"Goodbye."
Oliver walked toward the main entrance. A young woman in the hall looked at him seriously. Her hair was blonde, the color of freshly planed maple. She had dark eyes and a compact graceful body. Oliver's stomach tightened; he straightened and nodded as he passed. At the front door, he said, "So long," to the receptionist, a middle-aged redhead.
"Y'all come back, now!" Oliver stopped.
"Where you from?"
"Georgia, honey."
"Good deal," Oliver said, "the sun just came out." The hospital, Gifford Sims notwithstanding, had a light atmosphere. Aside from a large painting of Jesus near the entrance, the tone was functional and non-denominational. A sign announced that two babies had been born overnight. The hospital was known for its high-quality birthing. I could work here, he thought. But he had no idea whether he'd get the job. Gifford Sims hadn't exactly been blown over. On the other hand, there weren't many people around who could step right in and take over. Most good programmers already had jobs or would want full-time work.
Oliver drove home. In the mail, there was a large flat package from a bookstore and a letter from Myron saying that the account was open. He wrote the number on a card and put it in his wallet in case he should see Francesca. He decided not to send her a letter; she had her hands full. If she needed cash, she knew how to get it. The arrangement gave him a warm feeling when he thought about it. He was useful to her, even if she never touched the money.
There was a gift note inside the package: "This is the guy I was telling you about. Home in one month. Muni." The book was by George Nakashima,The Soul of a Tree.Oliver was immediately attracted to the photographs of walnut, cherry, and chestnut tables. The tops were made from wide slabs that had been left in their natural contours. Where the wood had separated as it dried, Nakashima had inlaid butterfly keys to prevent the splits from widening. The keys were made of contrasting woods—rosewood and oak. Their butterfly or bow tie shapes became design elements, quasi-geometric signatures. Oliver was fascinated.
Later, in Deweys, he tried to explain to Mark. "The tables knock me out. I mean, sure, it's hard to go wrong with a great piece of walnut. The guy must have gotten every trophy tree in Pennsylvania. But what I love is the way he treated splits. He repaired them with these butterfly keys." Oliver made a quick drawing and showed it to Mark. "The keysimprovethe look. They add the human touch, so that it isn't only a beautiful piece of wood—it's a beautiful piece made even better. He turns a flaw into a strength by acknowledging it, working with it instead of trying to hide it."
"Righteous," Mark said. "I want one."
"They're all in collections, now. The guy is famous," Oliver said. "I think that his daughter is carrying on the tradition."
"Must be nice to make something that lasts," Mark said.
"You've got enough money to make things," Oliver said. "You've got an art degree, right?"
"Yeah, I can draw. But there's no money in it."
"Why can't you do both?"
"I try sometimes, but it's hard to get into it. If I make a good drawing or painting, then what—I've got to frame it and beg some gallery owner to sell it for fifty percent of not much? Frig that. It's not like I'm a frustrated genius."
"Just frustrated," Oliver said.
"Look who's talking. Maybe you ought to forget programming and set up a cabinet shop."
"Maybe," Oliver said.
"Speaking of frustrated," Mark said, "how are the ladies?"
"Not bad," Oliver said. "I'm in love."
"Oh, no!"
"It's complicated," Oliver said. "Remember Francesca?"
"Big trouble."
"Yeah, I guess. She's still with her husband, but maybe not for long.He's a jerk."
"A bill-paying jerk."
"He's not right for her."
"And you are?" Mark set his pint on the bar.
"I am—or could be—if she wanted."
"So what are you going to do, put your life on hold?"
"I'm going to work, save some money."
"No indoor sports?"
"Oh, that," Oliver said. "I don't know."
Mark shook his head. "Well, love is one thing, but I'd keep in practice if I were you."
"Maybe I'll buy a new sweater."
"Now you're talking. What was his name again? George . . ."
"Nakashima."
"The man!" Mark drank. "So how did you hear about him?"
"My father sent me the book I was telling you about."
"You never told me about your father." Oliver's explanation took them through another pint.
"Something else," Mark said. "You're lucky. My father was a drunk—took off when I was pretty young. He was hard on my mom."
"Do you ever see him?"
"No. She heard that he died a few years ago."
"Too bad," Oliver said.
"I don't know what his problem was," Mark said. "My mom said that he had a bad time in the Korean War. But . . ."
"How's your mom doing?"
"Fine. She's got a boyfriend with a bike. They tool around Albuquerque, have a good time."
"Love it! Look, I'm out of here."
"See you," Mark said.
Oliver walked home thinking that Mark seemed more vulnerable than usual. Everybody's got a story. Everybody's got some kind of problem. It started raining. He was wet through when he got home.
"Soaked, Verdi," he said. He changed into dry clothes and considered dinner. Instant red beans and rice? The doorbell rang. He went down the stairs and opened the door to the street. Jennifer Lindenthwaite was standing there, dripping.
"Hi, Oliver."
"Jennifer!"
"Aren't you going to ask me in?"
"Sure. Come in and dry off. I got soaked, too. Just got home." He led her upstairs and into the apartment. "What's happening?"
"Oh, nothing," she said. "Rupert threw me out . . . I'm pregnant."
13.
"Gaaaagh . . . Jennifer, that's terrible! That's great. I mean—here's a towel." Oliver whipped in and out of the bathroom and handed her a maroon towel. "Do you want to take a shower? How about a cup of tea?"
"Tea would be lovely. Iwilltake a shower." She closed the bathroom door behind her, and Oliver rushed to fill the tea kettle. The shower started. Milk? Sugar? Honey?
"Verdi," he called, "Jennifer is here for tea." The words echoed. Verdi was nowhere to be seen; probably he had taken refuge upstairs. Oliver paced back and forth from the stove to the fireplace. Why had she come to him? He felt the future looming, threatening to sweep away the controlled life that he complained about but that suddenly seemed more attractive.
The shower stopped. Jennifer stepped out a few minutes later wearing his Navy blue bathrobe. She was rosy cheeked and much recovered.
"Uh, how do you like your tea?"
"Do you have any chamomile?"
"Umm, no. I should get some herb tea. All I have is English Breakfast."
"Oh, that's fine. Just a little milk, thanks." She sat next to the fireplace and looked around the apartment while Oliver fixed the tea.
"I don't know," he said, handing her a mug. "Whiskey might be a better idea." Jennifer took a sip and sighed.
"That's so good. I forgot how nice your apartment is."
"It's large enough," Oliver said. "Walking distance from Deweys—I like that. So, what happened? You look great."
"I feel great. I'm just starting to show a little—getting into the fifth month." Oliver counted backwards. "What happened is that Rupert freaked out when I told him I was pregnant. He became—I don't know—distant.I thought he was just nervous and would get used to it, but he got more and more uptight. I couldn't take it anymore." She drank her tea and sighed again.
"So today, I . . . I said to him: 'Look, Rupert,whatis the matter? We're going to have a baby. What iswrongwith you?' I guess I should have been more diplomatic. You know—said something like: 'Rupert, I need your affection; I'm feeling all alone here.' But I didn'tfeeldiplomatic. I was mad as hell, actually."
Owl's words echoed: "Anger is the outer face of fear."
"Scared," Oliver said.
Jennifer looked at him. "Maybe so," she said. "I thought we had a family. I thought we were all set to go."
"Well, sure," Oliver said.
"'So,' Rupert said, 'who's the father?'
"'What do you mean?' I said.
"'It's not me,' Rupert said. I was shocked. Anyway, it came out that he has a very low sperm count. He knew it all the time and never told me. I told him that you and I had a one time thing last summer, and he freaked out.
"'I'm not paying for his kid, bla, bla, bla.'
"I practically begged: 'Couldn't it be like we adopted him—or her?'
"'It's his problem,' he said. He called my baby a problem. How could he love me if my baby is aproblem?"
"Good question," Oliver said. "Jesus, Jennifer."
She put down her tea and held her arms out to him. "Come feel," she said. She loosened the bathrobe and guided Oliver's hand to her belly, warm and taut.
"Amazing!" Oliver said.
"I'm still getting used to it," she said. "I'm over the morning sickness."
Oliver withdrew his hand slowly and straightened. "What are you going to do?"
"Tonight?"
"Well, for starters . . ."
"I don't know. I just wanted to see you, to tell you. You weren't here when I got home. I couldn't find a parking place anywhere close." Her voice trailed off. "I've got a credit card; I can stay at the Holiday Inn."
"No way," Oliver said. "You might as well stay here. Your clothes are all wet." A relieved smile brightened her face.
"Thank you, Oliver."
"Music," he said. He was hearing hearing strains fromLa Traviatain 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 ofWooden Boat Magazineupstairs, 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?"
"I haven't seen him since I got here," Jennifer said.
"He's hiding. Anti-social. He'll come out when he's hungry."
"I'm not hungry now," Jennifer said, putting downWooden Boat."That was a good dinner. Thanks for taking care of me."
"You're welcome." Oliver turned out his light.
"Nighty night," she said and rolled to her side. The comforter went with her. She switched off her light and snuggled back against him. He pulled the comforter back over him and brushed her hip with his hand.
"I'm glad you came," he said.
"Don't be a stranger," she said, settling closer. Her body was warm and self-contained. He patted her in response and said nothing. A baby? He lay there as Jennifer fell asleep. Her breathing was steady and unhurried. There was a lot to figure out. In the morning . . . He'd figure out what to do in the morning.
He awoke to the smell of coffee and the sound of Jennifer climbing the steps. "Here you are, Sleepy." She put a mug and a small glass down near his head. "Milk in here. You don't use sugar, do you? I don't remember you taking sugar."
"Mmmughh. No. Thanks."
"I'll be right back." She returned with another cup and sat beside him, leaning back on a pillow propped against the wall.
"Good," Oliver said, balancing the mug on his chest.
"Do you like it strong?"
"Yes," he said. "I mean—while you're at it. I usually buy a dark roast."
"That's what I like," Jennifer said. "Organic." She drank and put down her mug. "Do you think I'm awful?"
"Huh? No. Why should I?"
"Well, being a loose woman and all that. And then barging in without any warning."
"What else were you going to do?"
"I'm not awful?" She smiled and turned closer.
"Of course not."
"You're not mad at me?" Oliver shook his head. "Well—could I have a little hug?" She moved down and opened her arms. The bathrobe fell open. Oliver put down his mug. He rolled over, partially covering her, his arms around her. "I won't break," she said and drew him closer. "Oh, Oliver . . ." She was deep chested with high flat breasts that were beginning to swell. He fit his face over her shoulder, and she hugged him tightly. "Oh." She moved her hands down his back and under his shorts, pulling him to her. Oliver's thoughts skidded away.
"Jennifer," he breathed in her ear. "Jennifer?"
"God," she said. "Do something." She pushed his shorts down and reached around for his cock. As he entered her, she quivered and pressed against every part of him. "Oh! It's been forever," she said. "Oh!" She wanted him on her. She wanted him to come, to fill her up, to take his due. Oliver became a lord riding his finest horse, his property, his right.
"God," she said an hour later when he woke up again. "Rupert never made love to me like that."
"Yumm," Oliver said. He was in a pleasant haze. "I think . . ."
She waited. "Yes?"
"I think we should have breakfast."
"Definitely."
"I don't have anything—how about Becky's?"
Oliver was first in the bathroom. He was looking out over the street, waiting for Jennifer, when Verdi bumped his ankle. "There you are! Where have you been? Under the couch?" Verdi ran expectantly into the kitchen. "You shall have a mighty breakfast."
Verdi gobbled his food and stood by the door. Oliver let him out. The clouds were low and dark; a three day rain was settling in. Verdi slunk around the corner of the house, and Oliver went back upstairs.
"All dry," Jennifer said, brushing a hand over her skirt.
"Here's a hat, if you want it. Could rain any time. We'd better drive.Hey, you look good in a Mariner's hat."
"I like hockey," she said. "Not the fighting, the skating. They are such great skaters! My father used to take me to Bruins games. My car or yours?"
"Doesn't matter. Mine's closer."
"I love Jeeps," she said, getting in. As they turned down Park Street, Oliver began to be troubled. When he parked at Becky's, he realized that he was worrying about Francesca. He imagined her face, calm and questioning. What if she were there? He took a deep breath, pulled open the front door, and walked in. No Francesca. Good—one problem put off for another time.
He chose a table at the far end of the diner and sat facing the wall.Jennifer made herself comfortable and surveyed the crowd.
"I like it here," she said. "I don't know why I don't come here more often."
"Good place," Oliver said. Jennifer ordered a fruit bowl with granola and yogurt. He asked for bacon and eggs, homefries with green peppers and onions, and Texas toast. "Cruise all day on this," he said when the waitress delivered. He took a bite of bacon. They couldn't put off the conversation forever. "So—my baby, huh?"
Jennifer smiled. "Your baby. You're the man."
"I'll be damned." He found himself grinning.
"You don't look unhappy—to be a daddy." It was a question.
"Well, I'm not." He was getting used to the idea, feeling a bit proud.
"I like this fruit," she said.
"What do you think we should do?" As the words came out of his mouth, Oliver knew that he had crossed a line. The line had been crossed already—she was going to have his, their, baby—but he hadn't admitted it. We.
She looked at him for a moment and dropped her eyes. She poked around in her fruit with her spoon. "We could be happy," she said quietly.
"We'll need a crib or something," Oliver said.
A tear splashed on Jennifer's fruit bowl. "Yes. Yes, a crib. And a baby blanket."
"A car seat," Oliver said solemnly. Jennifer wiped her face clean.
"A car seat." She giggled. "Apple pie. Do you like apple pie?"
"You're kidding," Oliver said. "Of course."
"I make good apple pie," she said.
"What about Rupert?"
"Rupert is history."
"But you're married."
"Not for long, Sweetums. He can't wait to get rid of me and have his precious space back." Oliver thought of his apartment and felt a small pang. "It's not even his house; his parents let him have it when they moved to Hilton Head. Everything in it, practically, was theirs. I couldn't get rid of any of it. God, I hated those chairs."
"My place is big enough," Oliver said.
"Your place is wonderful," she said. "For now, anyway. Is there a washing machine?"
"Around the back—there's a utility room. Damn!"
"What's the matter?"
"Thanksgiving. I'm supposed to go to my sister's."
Jennifer lifted her spoon triumphantly. "No more Hilton Head! That's where Rupert and I were going. Oh, how wonderful!" She lowered her spoon. "The beach is nice, but Rupert's mother—what a trip."
"Wait 'til you meet my sister." Jennifer's face fell. "Just kidding,"Oliver said. "To hell with it. Why don't we have our own Thanksgiving?"
"Would they be upset?"
"Not really. I can go another time—maybe over the holidays. We don't get along all that well, but I like her daughter, Heather. I like being 'Uncle Ollie.' "
"Already, I'm a disruptive influence," Jennifer said.
"We could have a good time," Oliver said. "They're going to roast a turkey at Deweys."
"I could make some pies."
"Solid. I'll call Amanda when we get home."
"I'll go get my clothes." She looked at him for confirmation.
Oliver nodded. It was a done deal. "Do you want me to go with you?"
"No. It will be easier if I just go."
"O.K. I'll get some food."
Later, in Shop 'N Save, Oliver marveled at how easy it was to start living with someone. He made reasonable guesses at what Jennifer might like to eat. He remembered chamomile tea. I was married once, he reminded himself. I know how to do this. A baby? That seemed unreal. Yet he had felt it, secure and growing. Probably, Jennifer shouldn't drink too much. He bought a bottle of Merlot and a six pack of ale. He bought organic corn chips made with what he thought was the good kind of fat. She said that she wanted to make pies. Better leave that stuff to her, he thought. We can get baking dishes at The Whip and Spoon on Commercial Street. It would be nice if that programming work came through. He should follow up with Gifford Sims. Jennifer was still working. She could help with the bills.
He made two trips up the stairs with armloads of groceries. Porter's car was parked in front. It had been there often, lately. Oliver wondered if he had moved in. "The house is filling up, Verdi." He put away the food, listening to Van Morrison and The Chieftains. His eye caught the heart that Francesca had drawn—probably not a good idea to leave it there. He peeled the tape from the wall, folded the heart carefully, and put it with the Marsh and Cooley account information in a brown manila envelope. Something told him to keep the account and Francesca to himself. If he could put Francesca in a separate place, keep her from Jennifer, he wouldn't have to choose between them. He was uneasy about this, but he didn't know what else to do. He had a plastic filing box where he kept his income tax information returns. He slid the envelope into the folder for the oldest year, closed the box, and put it in a corner of the closet.
"I'm home, Handsome!" Oliver trotted downstairs and took a load of clothes from Jennifer.
"I'll put them on the couch for now," he said. "I'll make some shelves or something. How did it go?"
"Fantastic. Rupert was just leaving when I got there. I told him I was moving out and he hardly changed expression. I told him I'd have my stuff out by tomorrow night."
"You don't fool around."
"Only with you." Jennifer hugged him and stepped away. "More in the car," she said happily. They made several trips. "This is most of it. The summer clothes are put away; I'll get them tomorrow. And the sheets and towels I bought—I'm damned if Rupert's going to get those."
"Right," Oliver said. "You should park where the Jeep is, behind the house. The next time I go out, I'll park on the street when I come back. There's only one space with the apartment."
"Oh, I'm driving you out."
"No problem. When you get to nine months, you shouldn't be looking around for parking."
"There's my cross country skis and my bike . . ."
"We can put those in the basement. I have a storage area down there."
"It's so cozy here." Jennifer was glowing.
"I bought some chamomile tea."
"Oliver, you're the perfect man—myperfect man—my PM, my PrimeMinister."
"Does that mean you want some?"
"It would be wonderful."
Oliver made tea, thinking that Jennifer had a lot of stuff. Shelves were a necessity. There were two bare walls upstairs. He could buy pine and use the two pieces of walnut for the top shelves. Maybe not. Save the walnut for something else.
"Oh God, the books!" Jennifer said.
"Huh?"
"I have a lot of books."
"More shelves," Oliver said. "I'll help you with the books."
"We'll need boxes."
"I'll get some tomorrow at the U-Haul place."
"Rupert will be gone after nine."
"I don't care," Oliver said.
"It just makes things smoother," she said.
By late afternoon the next day, they had carried the last load into the apartment. The living room was full of boxes. They sat at the kitchen table and made plans. Jennifer was going to work in the morning, the day before Thanksgiving. Oliver was going to make shelves and then move his tools down to the basement. They could use his workbench to hold the additional kitchen stuff. Jennifer had a whole set of dishes she had bought, refusing to use the ones that had belonged to Rupert's parents.
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."
"Hello, George. What should we do with the pies, Oliver?"
"I'll ask Sam."
The bartender pointed at a table pushed against one wall. "The bird is going over there—any time now." Oliver put three pies on the table and stashed the empty box underneath. He ordered a pint of Guinness for himself and a half for Jennifer.
"Prescribed for young mothers," he said, handing it to her and taking her coat. George stared at Jennifer's stomach.
"Due in April," she said.
"Fatherhood," Oliver said, setting the record straight and sipping his pint.
"Jesus, Oliver . . . I've been making sculptures; you've been making the real thing."
"It sort of makes itself," Jennifer said.
"Boy or girl?"
"Good question," Oliver said.
"We could find out, but I don't really want to," Jennifer said. "Mmmm." She made a face. "This what-do-you-call-it takes a little getting used to."
"Guinness," Oliver said. "Stout."
"Guinness is a kind of stout," George said. "Some stouts are sweeter; some are a little lighter."
"One thing about stout," Oliver said, "it's hard to drink too much of it. You get full first. Looks like most of the regulars are here. Where's Richard?"
"O'Grady? New York. He goes to his sister's every year." George's eyes went back to Jennifer. She was wearing a long sleeved turquoise jersey with a revealing scoop neck. The jersey hugged her breasts and then curved slightly out and back into dark slacks. "Athletic momma," George said.
"That's a title," Oliver said. "You just got sculpted or something."
"Painted," George said.
"What do you know about painting?" Mark Barnes had drifted next to them.
"Hey, Mark," Oliver said. He introduced Jennifer.
"I've seen you somewhere," Jennifer said to Mark.
"Climbing out a bedroom window," George said.
"Was that it?" Jennifer smiled.
"Couldn't have been recently," Mark said.
Sandy staggered into the room, carrying a huge turkey in a roasting pan. She lowered it to the table as the regulars cheered. Sandy had worked in Deweys for years. She was popular—red-cheeked, oversized, hard-drinking, and tolerant. Another woman brought paper plates, plastic utensils, and a carving set. "Go for it," Sandy said.
"Where's the broccoli?" someone called. There was a chorus of boos.
Sandy and her helper made another trip to the kitchen, returning with garlic bread and an oversized bowl of salad. The group took turns hacking at the turkey. George and Mark argued about Giacometti.
George maintained that Giacometti was better than Picasso. Mark would have none of it. "All that angst! He never met a color he didn't like—cuz the color was always black. My God! I mean, for an Italian!"
"He was Swiss," Jennifer said.
"That explains it," Mark said.
"I love you," George said.
"I took Modern Art at Bowdoin," Jennifer said. "I did a paper onAlberto Giacometti."
"My God," George said, "Bowdoin? They let you out of theImpressionists?"
"Oh, yes," Jennifer said. "Giacometti was very good. Cute, too."
"I knew it," Mark said. "Cute."
"How about some turkey?" Oliver suggested.
Bringing the pies turned out to be a good idea; they disappeared quickly. Sam presented Jennifer with a pint on the house. She was treated like a queen by many of the regulars—misty-eyed about motherhood as long as they didn't have to deal with it. Two hours later, she began to yawn. Oliver collected the empty pie dishes, and they drove home, fortified against the cold, pleased to have been accepted as a couple for the first time.
"I like your friends," Jennifer said on the way home. She rubbed her eyes. "Itwassmoky in there."
"We should have left a little sooner, I guess," Oliver said. "How'sJunior?"
"No complaints."
"That was our coming-out party," Oliver said.
"Yep—we're an item now," Jennifer said, patting him on the knee.
The next day, Jennifer came home with a booklet on how to get a Maine divorce. "Great news," she said, "two or three months and it's over. I called Rupert. He was feeling guilty and said he'd sign whatever. It's pretty simple, really. We don't own much in common."
"That's how it was with Charlotte. We had the house together, but she got some money from her parents and bought me out. Wasn't all that much equity, anyway."
"Where was your house?"
"Peaks Island."
"Oooh," Jennifer said, "that must have been nice."
"It wasn't bad . . . I like the ferries, but they get to be a pain."
"I think we should stay right here until the baby is born," Jennifer said.
"Uh, yeah." Doing anything else had never crossed Oliver's mind.
"But, afterwards, I think we should be looking for a place with more room—don't you?"
Oliver rubbed his forehead. "I guess," he said. "I hadn't thought that far ahead."
"April 24th, the big day," Jennifer said.
"Spring," Oliver said.
"I should be able to work until then. I get three months maternity leave."
"Money," Oliver said. "We'll see how the hospital gig works out. Hard to tell."
"Oliver, let's not worry about anything. Let's just enjoy it. God, I'm so glad I'm not at Hilton Head!"
"We've got our own beaches," Oliver said and was immediately sorry as he imagined Francesca walking toward him.
"What's the matter?"
"Nothing," he said.
"Ithashappened fast," she said sympathetically. "Let me fix you some tea." It wasn't such a bad thing to be fussed over, he thought.
They stayed around the apartment most of the weekend. On Sunday morning, Oliver woke up before Jennifer. It was snowing lightly. He thought of getting out of bed quietly and taking coffee to Crescent Beach. Would Francesca be there? Would she miss him if he didn't go? If he did go, how could he explain to Jennifer where he'd been? He wanted to share the new developments with Francesca, but he was afraid of hurting her. Maybe it was better to let it be for a while. Maybe Francesca wouldn't be there. Maybe she was already on a warm beach in Costa Rica, not a snowy one in Cape Elizabeth.
He got up, made coffee, and turned on the radio. The public station was playing a Bach cantata. Oliver repressed a feeling of disloyalty as he took the coffee upstairs. "Love the one you're with," he repeated to himself from The Rolling Stones.
Jennifer hunched herself up on the pillows and accepted a mug with both hands. "Mmmm," she said, sipping. "Have to do it."
"Do what?"
"Call Mother."
"Ah," Oliver said, "me too."
"She'll be fine once she gets used to it."
"You mean, used to me."
"Yes, Silly. She's already excited about the baby."
"Maybe we should drive down."
"Yes, but I'd better go first. Then we'll go together—maybe atChristmas."
"O.K.," Oliver said.
"Daddy won't care; he never liked Rupert."
"Good man."
Oliver took a long shower, standing under hot water, hearing snatches of Jennifer's voice as she talked on the phone. He dried himself with one of her thick white towels and received a vigorous hug when he stepped into the kitchen. "She freaked out when I explained, but the worst is over," Jennifer said. "I'm going to drive down next Saturday, stay the night, get things back on track." Oliver wondered what "on track" meant.
"O.K.," he said. "One down. My mother will be excited, actually."
"It is exciting," Jennifer said. "Go on, get it over with." Oliver called and gave his mother the news, promising to bring Jennifer for a visit during the holidays. "There," Jennifer said, "that wasn't so bad. I want to meet your mom."
"You'll like her," Oliver said. "Want to go down to Becky's? Honeymoon fruit bowl?"
By Monday, they were ready for the working world. Jennifer gave him a goodbye smooch and drove to The Wetlands Conservancy. Oliver stopped for a bagel on his way to the hospital and read the paper like a proper commuter.
Gifford Sims shook his hand and then led him farther down the hall and into another office. "Suzanne," he said, "this is Oliver Prescott. He will be working with us on the computer." He nodded at Oliver and left. A man known far and wide for his small talk, Oliver almost said.
"Gifford is my uncle," Suzanne said neutrally. She was the same tidy chick who had looked him over on his first visit. She wore no make-up or jewelry. Her face had a healthy glow, framed by her soft shoulder-length blonde hair. She smiled quickly, a flash of teeth, an invitation, gone as soon as he took it in. Her mouth settled to a patient hurt expression. "What is your social security number?"
She filled out a form. "We still do payables by hand," she said.
"So, I should giveyouthe bill?"
"Yes. Just leave it on my desk if I'm not here. I'm usually here." The smile again, this time rueful and just as quickly gone. She brushed her hair back with one hand. Oliver noticed lighter streaks in her hair—from the sun, probably. Her eyes were intelligent, a deep chocolate color. "I can mail the check or hold it for you."
"Holding it would be simpler."
"Good," she said. "I'll introduce you to Dan." She rose and moved around him deferentially. My size, he thought. He was used to looking up at women; it was relaxing to be taller for a change, if only by an inch.
"Glad to meet you," Dan said, shaking hands and grinning widely. "We've got plenty to do." Suzanne excused herself. Oliver's eyes lingered on her as she went out the door. "As I was saying, plenty to do."
"Right," Oliver said.
"I'm in charge of billing. That's what we use the computer for, mostly. Let me show you the computer room." He took Oliver into an air-conditioned room where four women were working at terminals. The computer was at the far end of the room, next to an enclosed line printer. "We bought a receivables package years ago, but it has been modified a lot."
"Sure," Oliver said.
"Gifford has asked us to change the late messages. Here's what he wants." Dan pulled a piece of paper from his shirt pocket and unfolded it. "Over 30 days, this; 60 days, this; 90 days, here." He circled the numbers and underlined the messages.
"O.K.," Oliver said. "Where's the documentation?"
"We don't have much," Dan said. "The original stuff is on that shelf over there."
"Ah," Oliver said. He pulled at one ear lobe. "What language are we talking?"
"O.K." Oliver groaned inwardly. He'd have to get a book. RPG was supposedly the worst language ever devised. First time for everything. "No problem." That was one thing about being a professional; he knew he could do it. "Might take a while to get started . . ."
"Good! Good! We want it done right." Dan rubbed his hands together enthusiastically. He was in his early forties, medium-sized, balding, energetic. "Let me know if you have any questions. We don't work on Saturdays. Did Gifford tell you that?"
"Yes."
"Good! I'll get you a door key in case you have to get in here after hours. We lock the computer room at night."
"Dan, could you come here a moment?"
"Be right there," he called to someone in the corridor. "This is Oliver, everybody." The women had all been watching them. "Ruth, Edna, Lillian, Vi." He pointed to each in turn. Oliver smiled four times. "O.K. gang, let's get to it." Dan walked quickly out of the room, intent on the next problem. Oliver pulled a yellow pad from his bag and wrote names on the final page where they wouldn't be seen: Ruth, short blonde; Edna, happy; Lillian, glasses, bored; Vi, body; Dan; Suzanne. What a pro, he bragged to himself.
He looked through the manuals and tried to make sense of the system. The terminals in the computer room were used for data entry—billing information and payments. Terminals elsewhere in the hospital allowed people to look up information. Medical records were kept by hand in a different department.
The operating system was complicated but not too different from one he had used a few years earlier. There was a job control language that scheduled daily updates and a weekly billing run. A log kept automatic track of all programs that were executed. This gave him the names of the programs. He found Dan at the other end of the hospital and asked him for a password. Once inside the system, he found the source code for the billing programs. A lot of small programs were run in sequence before the bills were actually produced. He took a guess and printed out the last three to be run; the late messages were probably hard-coded in there somewhere. The code was incomprehensible. He couldn't get anywhere without a book. He said goodbye and drove to the Maine Mall.
There was only one book on RPG II. It was a language from the dawn of computer history, thirty years old. He took the book to the Food Court and began trying to interpret the code listings. Two cups of coffee later, he drove home. He had made some progress, but there was a lot left to figure out.
There was a statement from Myron in the mail. Francesca was listed as joint owner at the top. Her name, next to his, gave him a proud feeling. Together. The feeling of connectedness with Francesca was deep and comforting, as long as he didn't think of Jennifer and the baby at the same time.
Myron had invested most of the money in some kind of fund. There were small amounts of General Electric, Royal Dutch Shell, Pfizer, Microsoft, and Citibank. A note suggested that he stop in. "Keeping powder dry," Myron wrote. "These blue chips will grow with the economy. We'll add to them on dips and as money comes in. Waiting for good entry points on some growth companies." What was Pfizer? He'd ask Jennifer. On the other hand, he thought, maybe it would be best to keep quiet about this account—at least for now. He put the statement in his pocket and walked down to the Old Port.
"What's Pfizer?" he asked Myron.
"Pharmaceutical company. Solid. The long term outlook for the drug industry is good." Oliver inquired about the fund that was listed on the statement. "Right," Myron said. "It's a safe place to park cash—government securities only, decent return."
"I was wondering," Oliver said, "if you could hold my statements here—not send them."
"We can do that. Let me make a note. No problem."
"Thanks," Oliver said. "I'll check in from time to time."
"Or call me," Myron said. "I've got my eye on some companies—domestic natural gas, fiber optics, fuel cell technology."
"I've heard of fuel cells. What are they?"
"They produce electricity directly from a source of hydrogen. You feed them pure hydrogen or a hydrocarbon fuel; you get electricity, heat, and water. No pollution. Very reliable. Cars would be the bonanza market, but there are engineering problems to solve first—to make the cars cheap enough. There are a lot of other applications. Residential power. Industrial power."
"Wowzir!"
"It's a ways off," Myron said. "The people who develop a technology aren't always the ones who make the big money with it. Developing a business takes a different kind of skill." Myron shook his head. "I've been burnt," he said. "You put a winning technology together with winning management—thenyou've got something."
"It's interesting. Well—do what you think best. I'll start following these companies."
"No statement?" Myron inquired, making sure.
"Save a tree," Oliver confirmed.
"Right." A twinkle quickly disappeared. "Right."
Oliver walked up Congress Street. He saw a rack of postcards in an art supplies store window. I ought to send Muni a card, he thought. There weren't any that he liked, however. Maybe at the Museum. Christmas decorations were already appearing. It was going to be a busy holiday.
Arlen was collecting his mail when Oliver arrived home.
"Hey, Arlen, how are you?"
"Just fine, Oliver."
"Developments, Arlen!"
"I noticed—with a Volvo."
"Jennifer. We must get together soon. She's great. She's going to have a baby. We're going to have a baby."
"Congratulations! I'm happy for you, Oliver. Developments downstairs, as well."
"I wondered," Oliver said.
"Porter," Arlen said simply.
"Excellent! The House of Happy Endings."
"Thank you, Oliver. Let us hope so. When is the baby due?"
"April."
"Oh, my. Definitely we must celebrate. Whoops, there's the phone." He waved goodbye and let himself into his apartment. Oliver felt something at his feet.
"Verdi! Were you out? Well, well, time to eat isn't it?" He closed the front door behind him, and Verdi ran up the stairs. Oliver followed, seeing a can of coconut milk and a smaller can of Thai curry paste. Basil, a bit of chicken, green beans, rice . . . He was almost out of shoyu, but that wouldn't matter with a curry. Tomorrow he would get shoyu. And more veggies. Jennifer was strong on veggies.
15.
Oliver concentrated on programming. He found and successfully changed the late messages. Dan gave him a list of projects which he put aside until he could finish documenting the system. "You have to understand the data before you can work with it," he explained to Jennifer. "The data is everything. Most people don't know how to lay out a database; they make a mess that just keeps getting worse."
"You did a nice job at The Conservancy," she said.
"At some point, you have to start fresh," Oliver said. "The hospital can get by for awhile—if they don't try to change too much. I don't think they will. I don't think they want to spend the money. I mean, it works—the present system. I'll know what I'm doing in a couple of weeks."
"They're lucky to have you," Jennifer said.
"They're good to work with. You'd think that they would be a little screwy—First Fundamentalists and all that, but they aren't. They're cheerful, mostly. Practical. The women can't wear jewelry."
"Keeps them in their place," Jennifer said.
"Wedding rings are about it," Oliver said.
Jennifer cleared her throat loudly.
"Oh, yeah . . ." Oliver said. "We should do something about that—once you get your divorce."
"Was that a proposal?" She smiled appealingly.
"Sure—you don't mean church and all that?"
"No, Silly."
Oliver was relieved. "City Hall," Jennifer said. "We'll have a nice dinner afterwards. Do something for us."
"F. Parker Reidy's," Oliver said. "Eat teriyaki and watch shoppers on the snowy street."
"Wherever you like, Dear. Speaking of snow, we're lucking out—I shouldn't have any problem getting to Wayland."
"How far is Wayland from Boston?"
"Depends on what time it is—half an hour, usually. I take 495 right around the city, no problem. Umm . . . Sweetums?"
"Yes?"
"I was wondering if you would do something for me. I know I'm being awful, but—well—it's that snakeskin. It gives me a chill when I look at it." She put one hand on her stomach. "It's so—deadly."
Oliver walked over to the steps and pulled out the thumb tacks that held the snakeskin. "Can't have you getting a chill," he said.
"Oh, thank you. I just can't help it—how I feel," she said.
"Of course you can't." Oliver rolled the skin into a coil and put a thick rubber band around it. He hefted it in his palm. "I'll take it down to the basement. He sealed it in a Ziploc bag and stored it in a toolbox.
The next day, Jennifer left at noon to see her parents. Oliver had a pint at Deweys with Richard and went to bed early. He lay there, not used to sleeping alone, and thought about the relationship. It was like living with Charlotte again, but Jennifer was more fun. She was a natural mother—not at all bothered by pregnancy. All in all, the relationship was pretty good, but he avoided comparing Jennifer to Francesca.
In the morning he got up and took coffee to Crescent Beach as though his life hadn't changed during the last two weeks. There was an inch of snow—not enough to keep Francesca away. As he approached the beach he saw a shiny patch on the driftwood log. A Ziploc bag was taped to the log where they usually sat. The bag looked as if it had been there several days.
He bent over and saw a heart drawn on the paper inside. "O+F." He tore the bag from the log and removed the paper. It was folded. Inside, a note read: "Missed you yesterday. Leaving Wednesday. Be back in the spring, I guess. I hope you'll be here."
Oliver folded the note carefully and looked south. "I'll be here," he said. It was an acknowledgement and a promise. He felt a deep conflict in his loyalties, but it was bearable. The promise came from a different place than his attachment to Jennifer and the baby.
He stayed a few minutes savoring the coffee and the cold damp air. Gulls circled and dove at the other end of the beach. The geese were long gone. When he left, he took with him all traces of Francesca's note.
Jennifer arrived home during the early game. "Hi, Sweetheart," she said. "The roads were fine. Mother is withholding judgment until she sees you, but Daddy is on board. Don't worry, she'll love you."
"The Patriots don't look too good," Oliver said. "I'll wow her with my knowledge of RPG II."
"I said we'd come down at Christmas."
"O.K.," Oliver said. "Jesus!"
"What's the matter?"
"He dropped it," Oliver said. "You're back nice and early."
"We had a big breakfast around nine. I left right after. What do you think of 'Emma' as a name?"
"No!" Jennifer's face fell. "Not another one! Get him out of there!"
"Oliver . . ."
"Yes—Emma," he said. "I like it. Why Emma?"
"My grandmother's name was Emma." Jennifer was smiling again.
"Sure," Oliver said, "I like it. What if it's a boy?"
"I don't know," she said. "My father's name is Gene."
"How about Frisco?"
"Frisco? But that's a place, not a person . . ."
"Nakano. Nakano Prescott, now there's a name."
"I don't know." Jennifer's hands went protectively to her belly. "Nak?Naky?"
Oliver raised his voice. "Nakano Prescott stretches,makesthe grab, takes a big hit and holds on! The Patriots got something when they signed this guy." He patted her. "Just trying it out—I'm not real strong on Gene."
"Well, we have four months," Jennifer said.
In April, early on the morning of the 26th, two months after they were married in City Hall and had their celebratory dinner at F. Parker Reidy's, Jennifer felt the first serious contraction. Six hours later, Emma Dior Prescott wrinkled her nose, squinted, made two fists—triumphantly, according to Oliver—and went back to sleep, breathing on her own. Jennifer was thrilled and tired. Oliver felt a new kind of pang when he saw Emma. She had dark hair and seemed to be clutching part of his heart with her tiny hands, as though she had moved from one support system to another.