ike 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 bag