"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.
"You've got that right," Oliver looked at Myron. "Do you know her?"
"I do. I grew up in Brunswick. I was three years ahead of her in high school."
"I'll be damned. How is she doing? Did she say?"
"We didn't really get into it. She sounded fine. I sent the checks to an address in Seattle."
"Well done. Thanks, Myron."
"Marriages . . ." Myron said, raising his eyebrows. "Some work out and some don't."
"Yeah," Oliver said. He looked at Myron's wedding ring. "I hope yours does."
"So far, so good," Myron said.
"Nice going with the account. If she needs any more, you know what to do."
"I'll keep some powder dry," Myron said. "See you."
Oliver stepped outside. Greenery had been wound around the lamp posts. Holiday lights were strung overhead. The sidewalks were filled with shoppers crowded between store windows and low snowbanks piled along the curb. Someone had brushed the snow from the bronze lobsterman kneeling on his pedestal outside the bank buildings.
Oliver liked The Swiss Time Shop, run by a Swiss watchmaker. He bought a ship's clock set in a handsome maple case, a present for the house.
"He says 'Ja!' and everything," Oliver told George in Deweys. "Great guy. He actually knows how todosomething."
"Nice face," George said, looking at the clock.
"So, what's new with you, George?"
"Jesus, Olive Oil, the gallery owners . . ." George groaned and held his head with both hands. "They're all the same. They treat you like dirt. I just came from one—he kept me waiting for twenty minutes and then he had another appointment. This guy wouldn't know a painting from a Christmas card. I was big in California, Olive Oil, big. Why did I ever come back to this place?"
"How about the art school? Maybe teach a course or two?"
George looked at him in disbelief. "Theory, that's all they want. All theTop Bullshittersare there now, Olive Oil,talkingabout art. That's what they want." He shook his head. "Paint? It's no use. It's no use."
"The Top Bullshitters!" Oliver bent over laughing. "You're right. It's no use. What are you going to do?"
George threw up his arms. "I don't know. Fuck 'em. Paint."
"Let me get this one," Oliver said.
"It's no use." George pushed his empty glass across the bar. "That was a great party at your place. Eats. Bazumas."
"Jacky," Oliver said.
"And that Martha chick—the real estate chick—she wants to look at my paintings. Maybe she'll buy one."
"She's got the money," Oliver said. "Sell her a big one and go down and paint Jacky."
"I'd like to," George said. "Something about her . . ."
"Yeah," Oliver said. "Those were the days." Oliver had thought life was complicated when he used to drive over the bridge to Jacky's. " Bazumas!" he toasted.
"The finest," George said.
A pint later, Oliver reached in his pocket for tip money and felt a small thick square. On his way back to the parking garage he dropped Suzanne's note carefully into a city trash container.
20.
On Friday, Oliver left the hospital fifteen minutes after Suzanne drove out of the parking lot. It had been a tense week. He wasn't any closer to the missing $185,000, and he didn't understand what was happening to him personally. He had avoided Suzanne, although at least once a day he put his head in her door and they exchanged smiles, a moment that was a relief to both of them.
When he got out of the Jeep, Suzanne was standing in her doorway. "You remembered how to get here. Come on in." She shut the door behind him and came into his arms. "Hi, Stranger," she said.
He breathed in the familiar minty smell of her hair which was brushed out fully and freely to her shoulders. "God, you smell good." She squeezed him and stepped back.
"Let's get that coat off you." She had changed into dark brown cotton pants, a cream colored T-shirt, and a red plaid flannel shirt, unbuttoned. She hung his jacket on a peg by the door.
"You look great," Oliver said. It was the truest thing he had said all week.
"Thank you." She stopped a moment, pleased. "I put the water on. Want some tea? Some lunch?"
"Tea would be good. I'm not too hungry—maybe a piece of toast?" He followed her to the kitchen. "I've got a headache."
"I thought you looked tense. Well, you just let me fix you right up." She pointed to a chair, and he sat down. She knelt by his feet. "Boots," she said, untying the laces, "here we go." She pulled them off and led him into her bedroom. "Lie down there; I'll be right back." Oliver stretched out. He heard water running. Suzanne came in with a washcloth that she doubled and placed across his forehead and eyes. It was cool and moist. "There," she said. He felt her hands on his ankles and then his socks were drawn off. She loosened his belt and fluttered a light cover over his knees and bare feet. "There," she said again, satisfied.
Oliver was rarely sick. It was odd but comforting to be treated like a patient. He relaxed into the coolness of the washcloth as sounds floated in and out of consciousness. Suzanne moved around the house. A jazz combo started up quietly in the living room.
"Feeling better?"
"Yes."
"I'll bring the tea." She returned with mugs and two toasted English muffins on a plate. She put them on a bedside table, went around to the other side of the bed, and lay next to him, her head propped up on pillows.
They sipped tea and munched on muffins. "I like it here," Oliver said.
"It's cozy," Suzanne said.
"It's hard not talking to you at work," he said.
"I hate it," she said. She put down her mug. "We don't need to think about that now."
"No," he said, closing his eyes. She placed her hand on his chest and rubbed slow circles. Oliver sighed and surrendered to the palm of her hand and her fingertips.
"Much better," she said. Her hand moved slowly across his chest and then down over his stomach. Her fingers reached under the top of his pants and paused. He sighed again and rolled a little closer. Her hair brushed across his face, and her fingers worked downwards, quietly circling and pressing. "Oooh," she said. "We have lift-off."
Oliver took a deep breath. Impulses swirled. He reached down in slow motion and undid his pants. Then he rolled over onto his knees above her and opened his eyes. Suzanne watched him as he yanked off her pants. A knowing smile twitched at the corners of her mouth while concern and a plea for forgiveness showed in her eyes. She was wet and ready. She held nothing back, let him drive her crazy, begged him for it, and then gave a series of wondering cries as releases rippled through her body, one after another.
He withdrew, still hard, and kissed her. He lay back and stretched his arms toward the ceiling. His headache was gone. Suzanne lifted one hand a few inches and let it fall back on the bed. "Oliver?" He moved his head closer so that he could hear her. "You hungry yet?"
"After awhile," he said. He ran a finger lightly down the top of her thigh.
"Gardenburger," she murmured.
He rested his whole hand on her leg. "Gardenburger," he agreed. She smiled slightly. The devil and the angels were gone from her face. She might have been a sunset or an early morning lake. They lay quietly for a minute.
"I love it when you justtake melike that."
"Mmm," Oliver said.
"All week, I don't know who I am. I get a hint, like, when you smile at me—but when you fuck me, I know." Her hand lifted again and fell over against his stomach. He patted her hand. She sighed contentedly and slid her hand down. "Oh," she said, "we've got work to do." She rolled to his side and put her open mouth on his chest. She stroked him steadily and then rolled to her back pulling him over on her. "Come on, Lover. Give it to me." She was urgent, calling repeatedly. The need built deeply and quickly, leaping into her, turning him inside out and helpless in her arms.
It was an hour later when he opened his eyes. "I was going to wake you at three," Suzanne said.
"Make that two gardenburgers," he said. "I'd better take a shower."
Suzanne cut up an onion and fried it with the burgers.
"Damn," Oliver said, emerging from the steamy bathroom, "onions!" He was still waking up. Suzanne was dressed again. Oliver sat at the kitchen table to eat, but he couldn't take his eyes from her breasts. They were just right, hanging and swelling under her T-shirt; they were perfect for his mouth, like pears, but so much better. "God!" He shook his head. "You are too much."
Suzanne flushed. "Is that going to hold you?"
"Terrific," he said. He ate quickly and stood. "I've got to go."
"Hold on." She came close and picked a blonde hair from his shirt."Don't want you getting caught."
"No," Oliver said.
"Will you come back?" she asked softly.
"Are you kidding? As soon as I can."
She hugged him as though he were breakable. "I'll be waiting." It was almost an apology.
He ran one hand down her hair and the compound curve of her back. "Save that kiss for next time," he said.
"That one and a couple more."
He left with difficulty and drove home. Jennifer was on a day trip to see her mother; she wouldn't be back with Emma until six or so. Woof met him at the door, sniffing at his clothes with extra interest. "Just between us," Oliver said, rubbing her ears. He changed clothes immediately. By the time Jennifer and Emma got home, he had baked an acorn squash, started a fire, done two loads of laundry, and split more wood. Celtic music was playing.
"Mother says hi. Precious was very good, weren't you Precious?" Oliver took Emma. "Doesn't it smell good in here!"
"Dinner's all ready."
"Oh, and a fire. How nice to be home. Let's turn that music down a little."
"Da Da."
Oliver pushed Suzanne to the back of his mind, struggling for time to understand or to outlive what was happening. Early the next morning, he cut a Christmas tree in the woods behind the house. He bought lights and a tree stand at K-Mart. By noon, they were hanging tinsel on the tree, and Jennifer was telling him that she could finally get some really nice decorations. Rupert had never wanted to bother with a tree.
At one-thirty, they walked across a graveled driveway in Falmouth and knocked on Bogdolf Eric's door. Oliver was carrying Emma; Jennifer held a canvas bag containing a fat beeswax candle and two bottles of wine, a Chardonnay and a Merlot.
"Ah, Jennifer!"
"Eric," she said, handing him the bag and accepting his hug at the same time.
"And here we have Oliver and Miss Emma," he said, disengaging.
"Merry Christmas, Bogdolf."
"Oh dear, I'm afraid—no Bogdolf today. The Lore Keeper is—in the field." He laughed heartily. "You'll just have to put up with plain old Eric. Come in. Come in."
"Woofy is just wonderful," Jennifer said. "She's the nicest dog I ever had."
"Oofy," Emma said.
"Isn't she, Precious? Yes, she is."
"A great dog—Eric," Oliver said.
"Yes." Eric nodded wisely. He looked into the bag. "Now, what have we here?"
"For immediate consumption," Oliver said.
"Good!" Eric said.
He's a jerk, Oliver thought, but he's a friendly jerk. Several of Jennifer's friends were already there. In an hour the house was full of people Oliver hadn't met. Jennifer moved happily from group to group. There were many children under ten years old, and there was much discussion of Montessori and Suzuki methods. The men talked about business and boats. Oliver wasn't put off by boat talk; he liked boats, had grown up around them, but he had never needed to own one, had never wanted to pay for one. These skippers were all cruising in the same direction: bigger is better. The business they talked was really about people. No one seemed interested in how todoanything—just in who said what to whom during the endless reshuffling of executive ranks.
Oliver knocked down as much of the Merlot, a good bottle, as he decently could. There was a sharp cheddar, Havarti, Brie, a salsa, an avocado dip, baby carrots, and various kinds of chips. As he ate and drank, the conversations around him blurred together, so that he caught the intent but not the detail, a more relaxing state. He had a small Dewars and refrained from asking Eric to release the Laphroiag from its hiding place. He began to see large wind-up keys protruding from the backs of the guests. I must have one too, he thought, but set for a different kind of motion. These guys would march back and forth in front of the yacht club, six steps one way and six steps the other, until they wound down.
He stepped outside and explained his key theory to a woman who was smoking in front of the garage. She was thin with large dark eyes and a high-strung manner. "I'm more of an all-terrain guy. Take it slow; keep going until your hat floats."
"I got theother womankey," she said in a surprising husky voice. "I go in a straight line and turn around and no one's there. After awhile, I do it again in a different direction."
"Shit," Oliver said sympathetically.
"It has its moments," she said, flicking ash from the end of her cigarette.
"What's your name?"
"Marguerite."
"I'm Oliver."
"I know."
"You do? How?"
"Everyone does. You're the short one who married Jennifer and saved her from Rupert. Cute kid, by the way."
"Aha," Oliver said. That explained the identical looks of comprehension he received when Jennifer introduced him to her women friends. Heisshort, 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'tmygraveyard." 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 knowMyron 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."
"Oliver."
"Up to the plate, Oliver." He looked down, charming, sorry for Oliver who was too short to hit it out of the park.
"Ah," Oliver said.
"Myron's a good man," Conor said, "known him for years."
"Good man," the other guy echoed.
"I like him," Oliver said. "I guess I'm conservative."
"Nothing wrong with that." Conor swept his arm expansively, making room for conservatives.
"The next generation's asleep," Oliver said, pointing to Emma. "Got to pull anchor, head for port. Nice talking with you."
"Standing clear," Conor said. Oliver felt a rush of relief that Francesca had left the guy. Marguerite caught his eye. She raised her eyebrows, amused. Complicated, Oliver thought, easier to go home.
Jennifer made an effortless series of goodbyes, impressing Oliver with her skill once again. "Farewell, Eric," he said to the host.
"Merry Christmas, Oliver."
It was dark and much colder as they settled into the Volvo and drove home. "What a great party," Jennifer said. "You know, I was talking to Mary. If you're tired of bouncing around, I think you could get a good position at Tom's bank. She said he was looking for someone to come in and learn the ropes, take over as MIS officer."
"Do I look like the officer type?"
"If you don't, no one does. It doesn't have anything to do with height.You were having fun with Marguerite."
"Yeah, I like her. What's her story?"
"Poor Marguerite, she's had—unfortunate affairs. I really don't know what men see in her. She's awfully skinny."
"Well," Oliver said, "she's sympathetic."
"Too sympathetic," Jennifer said. "She ought to pick some nice guy and get on with it." Get it on, Oliver started to say, but didn't. "It was so nice to see all the children playing," Jennifer continued. "Wouldn't it be wonderful for Emma to have a little brother to play with?" She reached over and rubbed his leg.
"Get on with it, you mean?"
"Oh Sweetums! Of course not! Not like that. But itwouldbe nice, wouldn't it?" She kept her hand on his leg.
"Yes," Oliver said. "Seems like yesterday that Emma was born."
"It does," Jennifer said enthusiastically.
Oliver took one hand from the steering wheel and rested it on top of Jennifer's. "Merry Christmas," he said. "Merry Christmas, Emma." He looked over his shoulder at Emma, buckled into her car seat, serene, half asleep. "I love Emma."
"And me?"
"And you," he said. It was true, but why did his heart sink after he said it? There were loves and there were loves. He patted her hand and corrected a small skid.
21.
Oliver enjoyed Christmas in the new house. He talked to his mother and his sister on the phone, took pictures of Emma in front of the tree, and made another bookshelf for the living room. Jennifer eased up on the little brother plan, accepting his suggestion that she might not want to be heavily pregnant in July. "A little pregnant would be fine," she said. Oliver agreed—a three or four month delay. He tried not to think of Suzanne. He decided to skip the coming Friday visit.
Tuesday, at work, he handed Dan a picture of Emma. "Pride of thePrescott's," he said.
"Chip off the old block. Does she program yet? A cutie! She'll keep you busy."
"She will. How was your holiday?"
"Fine. My brother came for a couple of nights. Lots of music, good eats." Dan patted his stomach. "Have to work it off. Any luck with the trial balance?"
"Not so far."
"Well, if you can't find it, you can't find it. Month to month, we're doing fine; the numbers aren't getting worse. I've got to find Vi." He raced away at Dan speed.
Oliver took a deep breath and walked down the hall to Suzanne's office. She looked at him, glad and appealing. "Friday . . ." he started. She blushed.
"I've got something to show you at the house," she said.
"Good," he heard himself say. He stood there, grinning, amazed at himself. "Friday," he confirmed. He went back to the computer—happy but frightened. He couldn't make excuses; hehadto see her. Don't panic, he told himself. Just stay for a couple of hours and go to Deweys for a Friday night drink with the boys. Go home smelling of Guinness and cigarettes . . . He was skidding, losing control. He plunged into the hunt for the missing money with renewed determination.
Computer programs evolve and become more complicated over time. This accounting package had been in place for eight years. Many new versions had been installed and much had been changed to suit this particular hospital. It would take too long to set up a parallel test system, and it probably wouldn't help, anyway. The best hope for fixing programming problems is to catch them when they happen, when there are clues to help in the search. The monthly trial balance is off—why? What changed last month? A weird data situation? A new program? Modifications to an old program? But in this case, the accounts had drifted out of balance over a six-month period, nearly two years earlier. The imbalance had remained constant since then. Either the problem had been fixed, or it was still there and might or might not happen again.
Naturally, the previous programmer hadn't bothered to keep a log or make comments in the programs. Typical. Oliver was used to cleaning up after other programmers. In fact, their mistakes were the source of half his work. Still, it annoyed him that they didn't take time to do the job right; comments made life easier for everyone.
On Friday, he told Dan that he didn't think he could find the problem."Not unless it starts happening again."
"It's not worth spending any more time on it," Dan said.
"What will the auditors do?"
"I don't know. Fudge it, probably. Create some kind of miscellaneous adjustment account. We'll see. Oh, we got a package from IBM—looks like another operating system release."
"No sweat," Oliver said. "I'll install it after the month-end run—midnight, the 31st."
"I'll put it in the cabinet in the computer room," Dan said.
Oliver took care of loose ends until noon and waited for Suzanne to drive away. Half an hour later, she met him at her door. They clung to each other silently and then stepped inside. Oliver hung up his coat.
"So, what are you going to show me?"
She pointed to the living room. "Come see."
He followed her into the room where a quilt in the making was spread out on the rug. A roll of white cotton batting leaned against the couch. Rectangles of brown and faded gold were stitched to a neutral backing—some were small, some large, some nearly square, others long and thin. Short irregularly curved stems cut from cloth—mostly black, a few reddish brown—were sewn randomly over the rectangles, crossing over and under each other, separate, yet interlocking. He saw it suddenly. "The field! Looking down."
"Bingo!" Suzanne said. "I make a different quilt every year for the hospital benefit auction."
"Wow, I love it. What goes on the bottom?"
"I've got a piece of dark brown material."
Oliver's eyes moved around the quilt. The patterns were unpredictable, but they had a sense of purpose, a natural order. "You could live in there," he said.
"That's the idea. Want some tea?" Oliver nodded while his eyes lingered on the quilt. He went into the kitchen and watched Suzanne make tea. She was wearing faded white jeans and a long mustard colored sweatshirt that clung to her curves. So compact and modest. Where did that superb quilt come from?
"It's so good to see you," she said, putting his tea in front of him.
He looked at her intently. "God, you're beautiful!"
She sat down, considering. "My teeth are too big. I look like a bulldog." She raised her eyes to his. "I guess I'm all right from the neck down."
"You're so—connected," he said. "Your face is like your body. Your hand is like your face."
"I'm feeling bad about this," Suzanne said. She got up suddenly and knelt by his chair. "Oliver . . ." He pushed back from the table. She buried her face in his lap, and he stroked her hair as she rocked her head back and forth.
"What?" he asked.
"Help me."
"Of course, of course I will."
"I've been so bad," she said. "I keep thinking of your little girl." She rose on her knees. Her face was lost and pleading. She reached down and undid her jeans. She pushed her jeans and underwear down over her hips and put her hands on his legs. She swallowed. "I know it's crazy." Her voice trembled. "Would you spank me, Oliver? Please?" He didn't say anything, and she placed herself across his lap. He felt foolish. He raised his hand and slapped her lightly. "Harder," she said. "Please." He slapped her harder and felt her sigh. She lifted and waited for the next blow. Soon she was whimpering and breathing harder, crying out when he struck. As he spanked her, the cries became more intense. He began to want them; he felt as though they were his—or theirs. When she collapsed, weeping, he stopped and lifted her from his knees. He stood and carried her to the bedroom. He lowered her to the bed and lay next to her, caressing her slowly.
Her face became calm. "So good to me," she said without opening her eyes. He took off his clothes and hovered over her. Her mouth was partly open, expectant. He couldn't think any more. He plunged down and into her. She quivered and took him, let him fuck her as hard as he wanted, arched under his bite, and held him while he made her his.
"Are you all right?" Oliver asked, ten minutes later.
"Does the Pope wear funny hats?"
"Suzanne?"
She rolled against him, her breasts soft on his upper arm. "Yes?"
"God, Suzanne. That was different." She put her hand on his chest and rubbed slow circles, the way she'd done when he'd had a headache. "I've been on the receiving end—a while back. But I never dished it out like that."
"How did it feel?"
"Kind of strange, at first. Then it felt good."
"I knew we were in trouble," she said. "What happened?"
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"To that relationship, when you were—receiving."
"Oh," he said. "I changed. Yi! What time is it?"
"Getting on for three."
"Baby, I've got to run. I hate to." He was already dressing.
"I know," she said.
He was gaining speed. Deweys was his only hope. He had to get there and get Suzanne to the back of his mind before he could go home. The quilt stopped him.
"Suzanne." She came naked into the living room. "This quilt is special." He thought. "It's because you are . . . And I don't mean just because you're twenty-seven and gorgeous. How did you do it?"
"I follow my heart, that's all." She looked at the quilt. "It needs a lot of work."
"I've really got to go. Damn!"
She blew him a wistful kiss. "Bye, Baby."
Oliver fled. He drove fast, hoping that speed would force him into the present, that driving would require all of his attention, but images of Jacky and Suzanne kept replacing each other in front of him. Suzanne surrendered to him the way he had surrendered to Jacky. Suzanne gave herself to him totally. Her trusting eyes put him in a powerful place. But as he swelled with strength, something else happened—a little voice whispered:take care of her; she's yours.He never felt that with Jacky or with Jennifer. They took care of themselves.
The quilt had shocked him. Suzanne was gifted. She was so sexy, so physical, so loving—how could she not have children? She deserved a good husband and family, not a misfit for a lover, too old for her, and married besides. Her breasts. God. Oliver drove faster.
"Pint of the finest," he said to Sam. His favorite spot was empty at the end of the bar. He leaned against the wall and listened to Taj Mahal playing the blues, keeping precise and honest time. He slid the empty glass toward Sam. "Let's do that again." Women. Halfway through the second pint, he said it out loud, "Women," and let go a deep breath. Deweys at that hour was securely masculine. It was understood that women were a source of difficulty, desirable though they were. Oliver glanced around the room. The man didn't exist, in Deweys, at that hour, who didn't have the scars to prove it.
He raised his glass to Mark who had just come in. "What are you going to do?" he said.
"About what?"
"Women."
"Ah, marriage," Mark said.
"It's not so bad," Oliver said. Better than the first time. Love the kid. But, Jennifer's working less and spending more. She wants to have another baby and be a full time momma. She wants to add on to the house."
"You just got the house."
"I know. What she wants to do makes sense, but it's a lot of money. Most of her friends have boats. Theyallhave boats. Wouldn't it be nice to go sailing with Emma?" Oliver lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. "She's even got me lined me up for a good job at a bank."
"Where the money is," Mark said.
"I mean, it's not bad. It's just . . ." Oliver shook his head negatively. "Gathering clouds," he said.
"Sounds like a stripper," Mark said. "Wasn't there a famous stripper—Tempest Storm?"
"I don't need a stripper," Oliver said, suddenly pleased with himself.
"Tempest Storm," Richard O'Grady said, shuffling to the bar, bright eyed. "Volcanic!"
"Hey, Richard. What's happening?"
"Nothing volcanic—but I found a '55 T-Bird. It's a little rough. My mechanic and I are putting it in shape."
"Nice," Mark said. "It will appreciate."
"Right," Richard said. "If it survives my niece. It's going to be a present for her eighteenth birthday."
"Would you be my uncle?" Oliver asked.
"Since she's not quite seventeen, that means I'll have to drive it for a year." Richard illuminated the universe with one of his smiles.
"Well, you want to test it out," Mark said. Oliver laughed and drank more Guinness. The room filled with the Friday crowd. He would be home an hour late. So be it. Jennifer would forgive him. Emma would give him a big smile. Woof. Verdi.
In the following months, Oliver slipped further.
Suzanne took days off, left early for the dentist, and called in sick when they couldn't stand to be apart any longer. No one seemed to notice that they were often absent from the hospital at the same time, although Molly began smiling at Oliver in a shrewd and tolerant way. "What areyousmiling at?" Oliver asked her as he was leaving one afternoon.
"Mama didn't raise no fools," she said.
"I like your mama—she make biscuits, by any chance?"
"Melt in your mouth," Molly said. "Almost as good as mine."
"I want to die and wake up in Georgia," Oliver said. Molly was warning him. If she had figured it out, the rest would too.
Suzanne gave herself to him utterly. She hoped that he would make love to her when he came over, but if he wanted only to hold her or to have his back rubbed, that was fine, too. He learned about her religious beliefs. She went to church every Saturday with the Fundamentalists and did her part in their community which included a school as well as the hospital. She was good-natured about her uncle and didn't take the rules too literally. How could she and carry on with Oliver? She believed in prayer. "Every night I ask forgiveness. I ask the Lord to show me the way. I need a lot of forgiving," she said.
"You're so sweet," Oliver said.
"I can be a bitch," she said. "I just don't feel that way around you."She lifted her face, lips parted for a kiss, and he pulled her to him.
She told him about her father, a long-distance trucker who drove away for good when she was eight. He had a drinking problem and was abusive. He lived in California somewhere, she thought, or at least he had once. Her mother remarried when Suzanne was in high school. Suzanne didn't like her new stepfather. When her mother moved out of town, Suzanne stayed behind for her last year of high school, living with her uncle and aunt. That was when she ran away with Donny, a sax player, and got a taste for jazz. She left him when she realized that his love for drugs was a lot stronger than his love for her.
She told him funny stories about Harley, who ran the local U-Haul franchise and was forever hitting on her for a date. She liked Harley. "He can fix anything." He was a Fundamentalist in good standing. "If they can put up with Harley, they can put up with me," she said.
Their relationship remained intensely physical. Oliver spanked her a few more times, but it quickly became a ritual, not a punishment. Suzanne didn't want him to hurt her. She wanted him to control her, a different matter. He felt increasingly responsible for her. He did whatever he wanted with her, sexually. She molded to his needs and became more beautiful by the week.
One afternoon, as Oliver was leaving the hospital, Gifford called him into his office. "What can I do for you?" Oliver asked.
"Nothing special," Gifford said. "I wanted to check in with you. We are pleased with your work."
"Thank you. I've had a lot of cooperation from Dan and—Suzanne."
"Yes. Suzanne said that you were attentive to detail." Gifford rubbed his chin. "She's my niece, you know."
"Yes," Oliver said.
"She's had troubles in the past, but she's overcome them with hard work and the Lord's help," Gifford said. "She'll make someone a fine wife."
"He'll be a lucky guy," Oliver said.
Gifford agreed. "And how is your family?"
"Fine," Oliver said. "Fine. Emma will be walking any day."
Oliver began drinking wine every night at home, taking refuge in a jovial family life that was drifting toward the rocks. He looked stressed when he wasn't drinking. Jennifer worried about him and urged him to dump the hospital job.
"Well," Oliver said to her one evening, pouring a large glass ofChianti Classico, "you're going to like this—theyare dumpingme."
Jennifer applauded. "I'll have a glass of that. What happened?"
"They were ordered to. The auditors did a solid job—took them weeks, remember?"
"I do," Jennifer said. "There, Precious."
"Dan was right about the missing money. They didn't think anything of it, said it was well within reasonable limits. Can you imagine, $185,000? They treated it like fifty cents. What do you think happens at General Motors? My God, millions must get screwed up every month." He clinked glasses with Jennifer. "Here's to the miscellaneous adjustment. I still don't know whether it was stolen. I doubt it, somehow."
Oliver cut off a piece of cheddar. "Anyway, they took the books back to headquarters, and today they ordered us to switch to a different software package, one that will be standard at all their hospitals. Centralized control. No more local programming. Bye, bye, Oliver." He waved his glass.
"Bye, bye," Emma said. Jennifer hugged her.
"I'm about done now, really. A couple of reports, one more operating system revision . . . I'm a little sad about it. It's surprising how you get tolikepeople. I mean, the Fundamentalists are nutso with all their rules, but they do a lot of good. If you're an overweight single parent with three children, no education, and no job, they'll find a place for you. They work hard, and they help each other. Dan is a really nice guy. And . . ." he stopped. "I just remembered—I have a present; it's in the Jeep. I was going to surprise you."
Oliver returned from outside carrying Suzanne's quilt. "I couldn't resist," he said. He unfolded it and held it up. "It was on display for a month at the hospital, one of the items for their benefit auction. It's handmade. I kept seeing Emma sleeping under it, so I made a bid and got it."
"Oooh," Jennifer said. "Ooooh, Precious, look what Daddy got for you!"
"Do you like it?" Oliver asked.
"It's beautiful," Jennifer said.
"That's what I thought."
"Who made it?"
"Suzanne—you know, the woman I told you about who has been so helpful. See? Look down here." He pointed out a tangle of stems in one corner where "SUZANNE" had been stitched in a way that made the letters look like part of the growth. "See there?"
"Oh, I see it. How clever!"
"It's a field," Oliver said.
"How much did you bid?"
"You don't want to know."
"That much? Oh well, I suppose it's for a good cause."
"Right," Oliver said. "Emma." He scratched his head and drank moreChianti. "Money. What was that guy's name? The bank guy?"
"Tom. I'll call Mary tomorrow and check it out."
Oliver felt his insides contract. "Guess it can't hurt," he said. He folded the quilt.
"Da Da," Emma said.
"It's a quilt for you, Special One."
"Sweetums, next weekend . . ."
"Yes?"
"It's Daddy's birthday and Mother is having a major party, Saturday night."
"That's nice," Oliver said dutifully. "Can't make it though."
"How come?"
"Saturday is the 31st, month-end. It's the only time I can install those damn operating system changes—after the monthly reports and backups and before any new transactions."
"Oh dear."
"It's my last responsibility, the last round-up."
"Well, Daddy will understand. I'll take Precious down Saturday morning and come back Sunday afternoon. I hope the roads aren't bad."
"Don't go if they are."
"We'll see. Time for nighty-night, Precious. Da Da got you a lovely quilt."
22.
Oliver adjusted his tie. The blue blazer that Jennifer had bought fit well. "You look wonderful," she said, brushing non-existent dust from his shoulder, her face happy behind him in the mirror. The oxford-cloth shirt was soft and expansive. His gray wool slacks were tightly creased. His shoes gleamed. Her creation. "Now don't be late."
Oliver turned and saluted. "Aye, aye . . . Jennifer, I don't know about this."
"You'll like Tom. He's a dear."
"I'll probably stop in for a pint, after. I'll be back by seven."
"We'll eat late. You look just right."
Oliver drove into Portland and parked in the Temple Street garage. The downtown high-rise buildings were all banks now. The highest points in the city used to be church steeples, Oliver thought. Now, all you see up there are bank signs.
He entered the dark and ornate lobby of Pilgrim's Atlantic. Money was taken seriously here. He looked for the elevator. "Topside," Tom had said.
When the elevator doors opened at the top floor, Oliver was disoriented by the orange carpet, the color-coordinated flowery wallpaper, and the sunny windows. A well-built maternal receptionist smiled from behind an antique table. Where was he? He returned her smile. Two silver-haired executives approached and passed each other in the center of the large room. They had magnificent chests and sun-bronzed features. They nodded antlers and continued on their separate paths to polished doors.
Oliver stared, entranced. A red-haired assistant wearing a tight skirt and a close-fitting white blouse came from behind a corner and followed one of the executives into his office. In front of her, she held a silver tray. There was a glass of milk on it and a small plate of cookies. Nursery school, he thought, and started to laugh. The power floor is a nursery school!
"Do you have an appointment?"
"Yes, ha. Yes. Tom Alden. Three o'clock."
"You must be Mr. Prescott."
"Oliver."
"Please make yourself comfortable. Mr. Alden will be with you in just a moment. May I get you a refreshment?"
"Ah, that's very nice of you. Let's see." Take your blouse off. Laphroiag. A ticket to anywhere . . . "Coffee—cream, no sugar, if you would." The woman pressed a button and spoke softly. Oliver sat on the edge of a love-seat and considered the reading matter on a coffee table:Fortune, The Rolls Royce,and a copy ofThe Economist.The redhead appeared at his side, bending fetchingly as she set down a cup and saucer. "Thank you," Oliver said sincerely.
"Oliver? How good of you to come." Tom, a slimmer darker trophy elk, smiled winningly and shook hands. "How's that coffee? It's Pilgrim's blend; we have it roasted to our specs. Margaret, we'll be tied up for awhile. If Jack Dillon calls, tell him I'll get to him by four. Thanks. Come on in, Oliver." He patted Oliver warmly on the shoulder. "How's Jennifer?"
"Fine. She sends her best, by the way."
"Good. Good." Tom opened one of the polished doors and ushered Oliver into his office. The harbor spread out before them. A ferry was halfway to Peaks Island.
"Nice view," Oliver said. "I love the look of those ferries."
"One of the better perks," Tom admitted. "The town is growing fast. I hope we aren't overstressing the harbor."
"Often a subject of discussion at our house," Oliver said.
"Jennifer does good work with The Wetlands Conservancy. We do what we can to help. Jacky Chapelle, one of ours, used to be on their board. You know Jacky?"
Oliver felt his room to maneuver slipping away. "Yes," he said innocently.
"One of our best, Jacky. We took her on at a lower position and made quite a career for her. We take care of our own at Pilgrim." Tom swiveled around to face Oliver more directly. "Why do you want to come aboard, Oliver?"
"Pilgrim has an excellent reputation," Oliver said.
"We're the can-do bank," Tom said, smiling. "Didn't Mary tell me you guys have added to the crew?"
"Yes," Oliver said. "Emma. She just had her first birthday." He shook his head, letting Tom see that he appreciated the gravity and the wonder of it.
"Mary and I have twins. The future becomes—more important," Tom said.Daddy would love this guy.
"You want to do your part," Oliver said.
"I'll be honest with you," Tom said, leaning forward, "we're looking for a good man for our MIS position. We need someone who can handle challenge, take on responsibility. Technology is changing fast, Oliver; Pilgrim must change with it. We're a large organization, but we keep a small turning radius. That's how we stay in front of the competition. Teamwork. You know—in the last analysis—business is all about people." He stopped to gauge Oliver's enthusiasm. Underneath all the nautical bullshit, Oliver sensed a fairly sharp guy, hard-working anyway.
"I can do the work," he said. "But it would take me six months to get up to speed."
"We've got four," Tom said.
"What are weekends for?" Oliver asked. That got him the job. That and the Jennifer connection and some boat talk.
He walked to Deweys and was greeted loudly by George. "Olive Oil, my God!" George waved at Oliver's blazer, slacks, and shiny shoes. "What have you done?"
"Pilgrim Atlantic is taking me aboard," Oliver said.
"My God . . . Is the money that good?" George's eyes gleamed.
"Money's good. It gets better if you keep your mouth shut and work sixty hours a week. I haven't actually started. I just came from the interview, but it's a pretty sure thing. I'll buy." Sam set two pints in front of them.
"Maybe it won't be too bad," George said. "Lot of women in there."
"All very well for you, George. I am a man with responsibilities."
"I see them going in. They look like they're going to jail. I want to save them, carry them away on a white horse." George shook his head sadly. "I can't afford a horse."
"There aren't any white horses left," Oliver said. "Silverwas it." He raised his glass to the impossibility of it all. "How's the painting?"
"I'm taking a break from painting, working on a sculpture. I'm doing a golden cockroach." George's face changed when he talked about his projects. His big smile and round eyes were upstaged by his prominent forehead and the bones in his cheeks. His mouth went from boyish to disciplined. "Intelligent," he said. "Indomitable. King of the cockroaches."
"Too much. What's the King doing?"
"He's poised, feeling with his antennae, sensing his direction."
"I like it," Oliver said.
"Yeah, come over and see it."
"We talked about Friendship sloops," Oliver said, after a swallow ofGuinness. "They're big on boats at Pilgrim Atlantic."
"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 theVolvo and secured her in the car seat. "Be careful," he said toJennifer. She kissed him quickly and lowered herself behind the wheel."Regards to all," Oliver said. "Wish your father a happy birthday forme."
"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."
"See you. Bye, Emma." Emma smiled for him, and Jennifer took off down the driveway, too fast, as usual. Oliver went back to bed for an hour.
He stayed around the house, split wood, and organized his tools. He watched a basketball game and took a nap. His plan was to start the day over again around eight in the evening, eat breakfast at a diner, and be at the hospital in time to make sure that everything was ready at midnight for the operating system revision. With luck, he could be at Suzanne's by one or one-thirty in the morning. "I know you need to be good on Saturdays," he had said to her. "But it will beSunday. I can actually stay all night, for once." Suzanne thought for a second.
"If I'm in bed, the door will be open," she said. Oliver felt a jolt of electricity, remembering.
He looked around the house and ruffled Woof's ears. "See you tomorrow. So long Verdi—wherever you are." He drove away in the dark and began collecting himself for computer work.
His schedule was perfect. The reports ran correctly. He made an extra set of backups and had time to clean out his desk before midnight. The operating system went in without a hitch. Shortly after one, he eased up Suzanne's driveway.
Her lights were on.
"Hi, there," he called softly as he stepped inside. She came immediately to the door and held open her arms. "Mmmm, you look sleepy," Oliver said.
"I've been reading, mostly, waiting for you. I took a nap after church.Are you very tired?"
"Not really. I took a nap, too."
"Want some tea? I have one strawberry jam left from last summer."
"Love some." He stepped back and looked at her white bathrobe. "Does this come off?"
"Pull here," she said, offering him one end of the cotton belt.
"Later," he said. "I was just curious what was underneath."
"Iam underneath," she said. They had tea and toast in the kitchen.
"Your quilt is a big hit."
"Oliver, you spent too much."
"I had to have it for Emma."
"The church will find good use for the money."
Emma. The church. They fell silent. It was late and still. There were no distractions. Suzanne turned toward Oliver. Her face was rueful and sweet and helpless. He slapped her hard, turning her head sideways. It was like a snake striking.
She turned her face slowly back to him. A tear welled up in each eye.Oliver's mouth was open in shock. "Suzanne . . ." he said, horrified.
"It's all right, Baby," she said. The tears slid down her cheek. "You can hit me again, if you want to. It would only help me remember you."
"No, no!I never want to hit anybody again, let alone you. I don't know what happened."
"It's the strain of what we're doing. I feel it, too." She was speaking the truth for both of them. She was braver than he was. "We have to stop," she said.
"It's true," Oliver said. "Suzanne," the words came in a rush, "you would be such a wonderful mother. You are so special. You deserve better." A bitter wind was tugging at his heart. "You're right—we have to stop." He stood up. "This is hard. Better to get it over with."
"You have been so good to me," she said, standing slowly. "Maybe the Lord's going to let me get away with one." She came to him, and their mouths met—a long gentle meeting. As they pulled apart, Oliver realized that they were separating as equals. He felt a ripping in his chest. He walked quickly to the door and took his coat from the peg. Suzanne stood in the center of the room. She was crying, but her face was clean and shining.
"Bye, Oliver," she said. "Don't feel bad."
He couldn't speak, could only acknowledge her and try to thank her with a helpless wave. He went out the door without putting on his coat and drove away without looking back.
The wind in his chest began to howl. He gripped the steering wheel tighter. Suzanne was right. She was right. He turned south on the main road. He was right, too, to go—before they got caught, before she was seriously hurt. She would get over him. She had a lot going for her.
The wind howled louder. It was like a dark angel blowing through him. He had never hit a woman before. He hadn't known he was capable of it. The dark angel was telling the truth, blowing him down the road. He had to set Suzanne free. She was better off without him in the long run. She sensed that, too, although they hadn't talked about it directly. They were a perfect match physically, and he loved her, but they were just too different. He banged the wheel with one fist and hung on as the angel blew harder.
Enormously harder.Jennifer.He had to leave her, too. Free everybody. Oh, no!Emma. Emma.He hit the wheel again and shook his head, but the angel wouldn't let him alone. "Do it now," he told himself. "Do it now. While you can." Could he?
Yes—if he kept going. The truth kept blowing through him. He couldn't have continued, otherwise. He bounced to a stop in front of his house, went inside, turned on all the lights, and playedLa Traviataat top volume. He put his toolboxes in the Jeep and covered them with a tarp. He dumped his clothes in piles on the back seat, shoes and boots on the floor. He filled a cartridge box with cassettes and put it in the front seat with the George Nakashima book. He gathered bathroom stuff together and remembered his briefcase and the file box where he kept his credit card information, the brokerage agreement, bank statements, and his passport. He put these in the front of the Jeep and took another look around the house. He added a flashlight and a picture of Emma to the pile in front. Woof and Verdi watched uneasily.
He made a mug of black tea and sat at the kitchen table with a pen and a pad of paper.
"Jennifer, I have to leave. I just realized it. It's better to do it now while you're away. I don't think I could if Emma were here. I can't give you the life you want and that you should have. It will be better for Emma, too, in the long run. I am very sorry to cause you this pain. You have been nothing but sweet to me, and you deserve better. I don't know where I'm going, but it won't be anywhere around here—so you don't have to wonder if I'm going to come driving in. Take care of Emma. I couldn't do this if I didn't know it was best for everybody.
"Here is enough to keep you going for three months. I'll send more as soon as I can. You can have the house and everything else. I just took my tools and clothes. I'm sorry. Oliver"
He wrote a check and left it on top of the note. He washed the mug and left it on the dish rack. Woof made a whimpering sound. Oliver patted her. "Take care of everybody," he said.
Verdi sniffed at the door. "You want to come with me?" Oliver asked, suddenly hopeful. He opened the door and watched Verdi stalk around the end of the house. "No. You're better off, here." He turned out the lights and drove down the hill. "So long," he said.
A band of gray was lightening in the east. The wind was still blowing through his chest but without the angriest gusts. He thought of stopping at Becky's in Portland, but he couldn't face leaving another familiar place. It was better to drive. Drive where? South. That's where people go when they leave Maine. Down the turnpike. He pulled off at the first rest stop and nodded at a trucker who was walking back to the parking lot. Take a leak, a cup of coffee. Go.
23.
Oliver stopped for breakfast in Chelmsford and then made it south of Worcester before his adrenaline burned down. Massive numbness lay ahead like a fog bank. Stop, he told himself. He found a motel and asked for a room. "Sure thing," the desk clerk said. "That'll be six hundred bucks."
"What!"
"April Fool." The clerk fell over the counter, laughing.
"That's me," Oliver said.
He slept all afternoon, ate at a Burger King across the road, watched the news, and fell asleep again without ever really waking up.
The next morning, he stared over a cup of coffee and tried to get organized. It was Monday. Jennifer and Emma were home. The damage was done. Suzanne. What a peach she was. He wrote to her, thanking her for being wonderful. It wasn't just you, he told her. He had to leave Jennifer, too. Suzanne would understand that intuitively. He wrote that he didn't know where he was going, but that he wouldn't be back anytime soon. He asked her to send his last check to Jacksonville, Florida, care of General Delivery. He signed it "Love, Oliver." Spring was a good time of year to go down the coast. He wanted to get far from Maine.
He called Myron and asked him to send a check for ten thousand dollars to the same address. "No problem," Myron said with admirable restraint. "Do it this afternoon."
"Thanks." Oliver paused. "Any word from Francesca, lately?"
"Not since those two withdrawals."
"I guess that's good," Oliver said. "I'll be in touch."
"I'll be here," Myron said. Oliver hung up, relieved. He had no plan; he was still numb. Might as well change the oil in the Jeep, he thought. Get something done.
While he waited for the car, he wrote to his mother, telling her that the marriage was over. Nobody's fault, he assured her with Arlen's words. He didn't want her to be surprised by the news if she happened to call Jennifer. Nor did he want to stop in Connecticut and explain in person. He needed to be alone and somewhere else. His mother would understand, although she would be upset. She acted onherfeelings; she knew what it was like, the necessity of it. She must have once written a note to Muni that was similar to the one he had left for Jennifer. He felt more sympathy for each of them.
He stayed another night in the motel. The desk clerk directed him to a Chinese restaurant down the road where he ate silently and noticed that he had no desire to drink. He was still numb. Eating and breathing and sleeping seemed all he could manage.
By mid-afternoon the next day, Oliver was in Jacky country. The light was different in Maryland—flatter and more open. It was full spring. As he approached the turnoff to the town where Jacky lived, he admitted to himself that he was not going to stop. It was comforting to think of her. Their passionate relationship had run its course, served its purpose, and, in the end, had left no bad feelings. She was his friend. Be true, she had told him at the housewarming. Well, he had been. For better or worse. Now he needed to be alone. "Be true!" he called out the window as he passed the turn. Leaving Jacky's, he thought—it must be time for Willy Nelson.On the road again . . .
Oliver drove steadily, stopping early, and taking walks at the end of each day. His mind remained knotted in Maine. He went over and over conversations with Jennifer. She had been consistent, always herself—cheerfully ambitious, social, not right for him. He tried not to think about Emma.
Three mornings later he found the Jacksonville Post Office. Myron's check was there; Suzanne's was not. He endorsed the brokerage check for deposit and mailed it to his bank. What to do next?
He was feeling more rested. He'd gotten into the rhythm of traveling and didn't want to wait around for the other check. He bought a road atlas and flipped through the maps over a cup of coffee. Key West looked interesting. Oliver had never been all the way down the coast. But then what? He pictured himself doing a u-turn and driving back up the length of Florida. I think I'll hang a right, he decided. Arizona. Tucson. That ought to be different.
He left a forwarding card at the Post Office and turned west. As he settled into the drive to Tallahassee, he let out a sigh and relaxed. He'd made the right decision, although he didn't know why.
The lush green South eventually gave way to the Texas plains and then the dry highlands of New Mexico. There was something elemental and down home about New Mexico that was similar to Maine, Oliver found. The Indians were impressive—silent and aware, not unlike the Japanese in that respect. New Mexico wouldn't be a bad place to live.
Tucson was a small city in a basin rimmed by desert mountains. The University of Arizona was a modern oasis in the center. Suzanne's letter was waiting at the Post Office—a check and a note:
Oliver,
Everything is the same except you're not here. I miss you. Don't worry about me—I'll be O.K. in a couple of months. There will always be a place in my heart for you. Please be careful. All my love,
Suzanne
His heart twisted. He was recovered enough to feel bad. That was better than feeling nothing, he supposed. Oliver mailed the check to his bank and considered what to do. He was far enough from Maine and had been gone long enough so that he was beginning to realize that he didn't live there any more. He rented a motel room and decided to eat in a real Mexican restaurant, if he could find one. He asked around and was told to drive out East Speedway and look on the left. Fairly far out along a strip of gas stations, discount stores, and used car lots, he spotted a substantial wooden building with a restaurant sign.
He parked and walked inside to another sense of time and space. The dining room was cool and dark, purposefully shaded from the sun by old timbers and thick walls. It was quiet. It might have been 1800 or 1600. The awareness of time stretched further back than anything he had felt in New England.
He ordered carne secca, beef flavored with intense dry spices that he hadn't before tasted. He drank tequila and wine. A stern guitar embraced the silence. At the end of the meal, Oliver had a final tequila. To his astonishment, he began to cry. Tears ran down his cheeks while he sat still, occasionally sipping his drink. When the tears stopped, he dried his face with a cloth napkin and shook his head. Much of the numbness was gone. He hurt.
For the first time since he had left Maine, Oliver wanted comfort. "Francesca," he said. He wasn't all that far from the West Coast. He could probably get to Seattle in four or five days. He had been heading there all the time but hadn't known it. He collected himself and drove back to the motel. He was in pain, but he had a plan—get to Francesca.