f. 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 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 ha