ng on her cart, one hand on her hip.
Her jacket was open. Oliver's eyes lingered on her solid breasts and
tight red sweater. She looked at him. He cleared his throat. "Not much
choice," he said. "I found a good sauce at Micucci's--the one with a
great picture of the owner's grandmother when she was young. It wasn't
that expensive, either." He was babbling, starting to blush. Her eyes
narrowed and a small smile pushed at the corners of her mouth.

"Yes," she said. "Micucci's."

"Great place," he said, rolling by, pretending to be in a hurry. God,
the woman was some kind of menace. But she knew about Francesca . . .
And those breasts. He clung to the cart and let his vision blur as the
red sweater came back into focus. He blinked and joined a checkout
line. A skinny woman in front of him put a gallon jug of vodka on the
counter. "Not a bad idea," he said. She looked at him, smiled as though
she were on a two second tape delay, and then frowned as she
concentrated on paying. Her arms and legs were like sticks. He wondered
what she'd had to put up with and if she had anyone to put up with her.
He didn't really like vodka, but he ought to get something for George.
What do foundrymen drink? Red wine? Ale? The woman picked up energy as
she wheeled her cart toward the parking lot. Keep going. Good luck.

He drove home and put away the groceries. He went down to the basement
and brought up a piece of pine which Verdi ignored. "Really, it's much
better," Oliver argued. The phone rang.

"Oliver? This is Jennifer Lindenthwaite."

"Hi, Jennifer."

"I'm calling for the Wetlands Conservancy."

"Oh, I thought you wanted to take me to Atlantic City."

"Rupert might not like that," she said.

"I suppose not," he said. "Ah, well . . ."

"Can you do some work for us, Oliver? Our mailing list is in hopeless
shape. We bought a computer, but no one knows how to do anything but
type letters on it."

"You want me to set up a database?"

"I suppose that _is_ what we need."

"How soon?"

"Umm . . ."

"Yesterday, right?"

"Well, sometime soon, at your convenience."

"As it happens," Oliver said, "I've got time in the next couple of
weeks. How about if I come over Tuesday, say--around nine?"

"Thank you, Oliver. You're a sweetheart. See you then." Jennifer hung
up, and Oliver looked at the computer. "Can't buy Friskies on my good
looks," he said. That was how work came in for him--two weeks here, six
months there. He got