Francesca's smile turned down, traveled around, and turned
up independently at each corner.

"Hi, Sweetheart. Turn around, now."

One of the girls was looking tentatively at Oliver, holding the top of
the booth with both hands. He waved at her, raised his eyebrows, and
bent to his eggs. Toast. Nothing like toast. He wiped up the remaining
yolk. Where's the husband? Probably one of those jerks in a Land Rover.
A bad golfer. Cheats. Christ. Oliver drank the rest of his coffee and
prepared to leave. As he slid sideways across the green plastic seat,
he again caught the woman's eyes. They were calm and questioning, brown
with deepening centers the color of the inner heart of black walnut. He
stood and nodded in the Japanese manner. No one would have noticed,
unless perhaps for her friend.

He buttoned his coat before pushing open the outer door of the diner.
The air was damp, tinged with car exhaust and diesel. The first flakes
of a northeaster coasted innocently to the ground. Francesca--what a
smile! She reminded him of the young Sinatra in _From Here To
Eternity_, awkward and graceful at the same time. The friend was
heavier and looked unmarried, a career teacher, maybe. Problems on
short leashes yapped around her heels. Oliver shrugged, pulled a watch
cap over his ears, and walked toward the Old Port.

A car pulled over. "Olive Oil!" George Goodbean shouted. "Want a ride?"

"Taking my life in my hands," Oliver said, getting in.

"It's a good day to die," George said.

"Aren't we romantic."

"Artists live on the edge, Olive Oil. Where the view is." A pickup
passed at high speed, hitting a pothole and splattering mud across the
windshield. "Moron!" George reached for the wiper switch.

The street reappeared. "Ahh," Oliver said, "now there's a view."

"Why is it, the worse the weather, the worse they drive?" George asked.

"Dunno. It isn't even bad yet."

"Assholes," George said.

"Yeah. I bought some black walnut," Oliver said. "I just saw a woman in
Becky's; she had eyes the same color."

"You want I should go back?"

"I'm too short for her," Oliver said.

"You never know. Some of those short people in Hollywood have big
reputations."

"They're stars," Oliver said. "I'm just short."

"What are you doing with the wood?"

"Haven't decided--maybe a table."

"I'm getting into casting. You ought to come over; I'm going to try out
my furnace."

"Casting what?"

"Bronze. Small pieces."

"Hey, who