blueberry
muffin, drank coffee, and listened to the waitresses chatter about
their dates. Francesca did not come in, but her image remained vivid.
He waited, not so much for her as for something in his mood to change,
to see if it _would_ change. It didn't. He continued to feel slightly
excited, as though he had something to look forward to. Francesca had
met him in a central place. Was it a place that they made, sheltered
between them? Or was it a place inside each of them that was similar,
more accessible in each other's company? Wherever it was, Oliver knew
that he wanted to go there again.

He walked home, shoveled out his Jeep, started it, and scraped the
windows, thinking that he'd see what George was up to. He could have
walked, but there wasn't much cat food left. He'd shop, maybe take a
drive.

George had a loft in a warehouse at the foot of Danforth Street. "Hey
there, Oliver" he said, opening the door. "Big day--Foundry Goodbean!"

"I brought some bagels," Oliver said.

George rubbed his hands together. "Come see."

Near a brick wall, a thirty gallon grease drum stood on a sheet of
asbestos-like material. Two copper pipes made a right angle to its
base. One came from a propane tank in a corner; one was connected to an
air blower driven by an electric motor. "Ta da!" George said, lifting
off a thick top that had a hole in its center. Oliver looked down into
the drum. "I used a stovepipe for a form--cast refractory cement around
it." The drum was solid cement around the space where the stovepipe had
been.

"Slick city," Oliver said.

George picked up a small object from a table. "The Flying Lady," he
said. He held it between his thumb and forefinger and swooped it
through the air. Oliver looked closely at a wax figure of a trapeze
artist. Her brown arms were held out; her back was arched.

"Wonder Woman."

"I've got to make the mold," George said, "burn out the investment."

"Investment?"

"Goopy stuff that packs around The Lady. Then I fire it in a kiln. The
wax burns and disappears, leaving a hard ceramic mold."

"Aha," Oliver said, "the lost wax process."

"Me and Cellini," George said. "Here, make something." He handed Oliver
a sheet of wax. "Not too big. I'll cast it with The Lady. There's
knives and stuff." He pointed at one end of the table. "And other kinds
of wax. Use what you want." He began to mix the investment.

Oliver laid the wax on the table. Without thinking, he cut out the
s