O+F Part 43

Hi. I'll understand if you don't want to see me. But if you do--I get off at noon Friday. I can go straight home and do the shopping Sat.u.r.day. If you can't make it, next Friday would be good too. But if you don't want to, I'll understand. (I said that already.) Missing you.

S.

P.S. Eat this note.

Oliver folded the note into a small square and buried it in his pocket.

Suzanne looked up when he put his head in her door. She was dressed plainly in a white blouse. Her hair was pulled back. Her eyes were soft. "Sat.u.r.day's a good day for shopping," he said.

She lowered her eyes for a moment. The corners of her mouth moved down and back, the beginning of her smile. "If you go early," she said. She was tender and proud, so compact that Oliver wanted to sweep her into his arms and keep her inside his s.h.i.+rt. He smiled helplessly and went back to his office. Didn't mean to do that, he said to himself. But he knew he couldn't run from her; it would be like running from himself.

This thing was going to destroy him if he didn't come to grips with it, if he didn't understand what was going on.

It was a relief to sit at his desk. One thing about computer work, he thought. You can't do it and do anything else at the same time.

Auditors were coming from national headquarters, and the trial balance was off by $185,000. Dan was hoping to find the problem before they arrived. It was a lot of money. Oliver wondered if it had been stolen.

Was there a First Fundamentalist embezzler? He concentrated until lunch time, leaving his office only once. Suzanne drove out at noon, and he left five minutes later. He wasn't sure he could take seeing her again that day.

He drove into Portland and had lunch at Becky's, glad to be back. He stared at the booth where he first saw Francesca. It occurred to him that he hadn't checked on his brokerage account for months. He ate the last of his homefries and slid the plate across the counter.

"Had enough?" The waitress paused.

"No, but. . ."

"We've got good pie, today. Dutch apple? Banana cream?"

"Can't help myself," he said. "Dutch apple."

"Warm that up," she said, stretching behind her for a coffee pot and filling his cup with one motion. "You want that pie heated?"

"Sure." He added creamer to the coffee, relaxed, and looked at a large photograph hanging on the wall behind the counter. A wave was was.h.i.+ng completely over the bow of a tanker. Both the ocean and the s.h.i.+p were muddy shades of gray. It was a gray stormy day. There were no people in sight--just the deck, battened down, waiting to rise through a crus.h.i.+ng weight of water. A simple black frame. No caption necessary, not in a waterfront diner.

He remembered eating lunch with Maria and Elena. That was fun. Cute kids. Walking the beach with Francesca. The memories eased his mind.

But this is now, he reminded himself. He set his mug down with a clunk to emphasize the point. Now. He left a big tip and walked to the brokerage office.

"h.e.l.lo, 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 d.a.m.ned. 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 s...o...b..nks 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 s.h.i.+p'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 to _do_ something."

"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 the _Top Bulls.h.i.+tters_ are there now, Olive Oil, _talking_ about art.

That's what they want." He shook his head. "Paint? It's no use. It's no use."

"The Top Bulls.h.i.+tters!" 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. f.u.c.k 'em. Paint."

"Let me get this one," Oliver said.

"It's no use." George pushed his empty gla.s.s 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."