“You’re a good one,’’ she said. And then, “I’m married to Conor.’’
“You wouldn’t have to pay any taxes on it. I do that. You wouldn’t get statements or anything. It would just be there if you need it. It could be backup for you and the girls, security . . .”
“Independence?’’ she teased.
“Well—yes, if you want it.’’ The fat was in the fire.
“Jacky said you were a sweetheart.’’
Oliver’s jaw dropped. Francesca laughed. “She said that she checked you out. She had hopes for you, but she said that the two of you were incompatible for the long run.’’
“Uh—she’s right.’’
“Don’t be embarrassed,’’ Francesca said. “How else were you going to find out? Look, I love Jacky, but I wouldn’t want to be married to her.’’
The image of Jacky attempting to intimidate Francesca with a whip made Oliver burst out laughing. “No,’’ he said, sputtering, “no.’’ Francesca gave him a curious look. “Good looking woman, though,’’ he went on. “Not as beautiful as you.’’
She accepted this without comment. It was a quality Oliver liked in her. Francesca was beautiful. She knew it and didn’t make a fuss about it.
“I want the money to have a purpose outside myself,’’ he said. “Seriously—it would help me. It makes me feel better. I’m going to get some work as soon as I can, so that I don’t spend it. I have the form right here.’’ He held his bag under the umbrella and pulled out the form. “If I can keep it from getting soaked . . .” He reached into his pocket for a ballpoint pen. “Can I write on your back? I mean, use your back? ‘BOISVERTE.’” He said the letters as he wrote them. “What’s your social security number?’’
She hesitated and then told him. “A very nice number,’’ he said.
“I’ve always thought so. It will be especially nice if I make it to retirement age.’’
“All you have to do is sign,’’ Oliver said. “Here.’’ He handed her the pen and swiveled his body so that she could use his back.
“Yi! What am I doing?’’ The pen moved firmly across his shoulder blade.
“A good thing, that’s what you’re doing—what we’re doing,’’ Oliver said, putting the application in the bag.
“Cute pen,’’ she said.
“It’s a space pen—writes upside down or in zero gravity. NASA uses it.’’
“My father worked for NASA.’’
“Oh, yeah? What did he do?’’
“He was an engineer, called himself a launch pad maintenance man. He and my mom live near Daytona. He’s retired.’’
“You don’t have a southern accent.’’
“I grew up in Brunswick, just down the road from Bowdoin. My dad worked on the base for years. He’s from upstate New York.’’
“And your mother?’’
“Local gal. She’s gotten used to Florida. I don’t know if I could. I mean, you can get used to just about anything; but . . .”
“Nice in January,’’ Oliver said. “I know what you mean. I grew up in Connecticut.’’ A harder shower passed over them.
“I love the rain,’’ Francesca said.
“Me, too.’’ They sat and finished their coffee, watching the rain and absorbing their conversation.
“Bye, Oliver,’’ Francesca said finally, standing with the umbrella. “You’re going to get wet.’’
“I won’t melt.’’ She smiled quickly, understanding it as he meant, that he would be there for her dependably. She walked back the way she had come. Oliver stayed, enjoying the calm. Francesca had that effect on him. When he was with her, he felt that there was nowhere he needed to go. He was already there, at the center. The world spread around them at greater and greater distances.
Jacky! He felt a stir of affection and shook his head. He should have known she would tell Francesca—the big picture, anyway, if not the details. He hoped Jacky would find someone soon. She wasn’t bashful. There was bound to be somebody in Maryland who would love to oblige her. Whoever he was, he was going to get a workout—and good crab cakes. Jacky had been straight with him. Oliver appreciated that. And he’d been straight with her. Maybe that was why he had a warm feeling when he thought of her; there was no residue of guilt or things held back.
He stretched and walked to the main road, taking the track along the rocks and then though the woods. He had left the Jeep in the approach area by the gate-house; the park was officially closed. A piece of paper was folded under one windshield wiper. It had a heart on it, drawn in pencil. When he got home, he taped it over the mantel.
Myron read through the application the next day and tapped his desktop slowly. “The co-owner,’’ he said, “will have full privileges.’’
“Right.’’
“If she calls and identifies herself and says, “Myron, sell everything and send me a check,’’ that’s what I’ll do.’’
“Right.’’
“Very good,’’ Myron said dubiously. “Just making sure.’’ He put the application and the check in a folder. “So, how quick do you want to get rich?’’
“That’s a trick question, I bet,’’ Oliver said.
Myron appraised him again. “It is and it isn’t,’’ he said. “Rewards are what you get for taking risk. If you want a big reward right away, you have to take a big risk. Over a longer period, you can take smaller risks—the smaller rewards add up; the smaller losses don’t wipe you out. But there’s another consideration.’’ He drew a double headed arrow on the top of a yellow pad. “People have different senses of time.’’
Myron darkened each arrowhead. “Some live for the future; some live in the moment; some—most—are in the middle. It’s a natural thing. As far as risk/reward goes, we can keep a given balance in any time–horizon. We can be risk–adverse, say, short–term or long–term.’’ Myron underlined the arrow.
“What we don’t want to do is mix up the two. Short—term and long–term investments are different. Not only are the investments themselves different, but someone who is patient and looks far ahead won’t be happy with in–and–out activity. Someone who is action–oriented, who is used to seeing results right away, won’t wait years for a company to develop or for interest rates to drop. You see what I’m getting at?’’
“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.’’
“O.K.’’
“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 since I 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 bakin
g 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.
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