used to call him
when he was little and she'd been partying.

He poured a nightcap and put on a tape--Coltrane and Johnny Hartman.
I'm wasting my life, he thought suddenly. What am I going to do? He
knew that he needed to change, but it seemed hopeless. He looked at the
walnut boards. Maybe a box . . .

He sketched a little chest with a hinged top. He erased the straight
bottom lines and drew in long low arches. "That's better." The top
should overhang. Should its edges be straight or rounded? Straight was
more emphatic; he could always round them afterwards.

He could make each side from a single width of walnut. Dovetailed
corners. A small brass hasp and lock. Why not? He could make the whole
thing out of one eight foot piece and have two boards left over for
something else or for extra if he screwed up the dovetails.

"Here you go," he said to Verdi. He replaced the offending piece of
pine with the original scratched walnut. "Nothing but the best for Team
Oliver." He looked at the heart. "Team O." Verdi forgave him without
moving. "Bedtime," Oliver said.

On Monday, Oliver cut pieces for the sides, top, and bottom of the box.
He bought a dovetail saw and made several cardboard templates for the
joints. It was a way of thinking about them. They were tricky, had to
interlock perfectly, one end male, one end female.

"What have you been up to?" Jennifer Lindenthwaite asked on Tuesday
morning.

"Making a box," Oliver said.

"Oh, that's exciting."

"It's harder than it looks--for me, anyway."

Jennifer wanted him to look at her and not at an imagined box. She was
a solid blonde, Nordic, with broad cheeks and a big smile. "I worry
about Rupert when he does things around the house. Something usually
goes wrong."

"Ah . . ." Oliver said. "A minor flaw."

"Rupert is wonderful," she said. "Now, the mailing list. Hi, Jacky."
Oliver turned and was astonished to see Francesca's friend in the
doorway. "Jacky is one of our volunteers. She does a lot of the mailing
list work. I thought you could work together on this. Jacky, this is
Oliver Prescott."

Jacky stepped forward. "Jacky Chapelle," she said. She had strong
cheekbones and dark blonde hair, cut short and swept back. Her eyes
were hazel colored. She had a winged messenger look that lightened her
direct, almost blunt, expression and her powerful shoulders.

"Uh, hi." Oliver shook her hand. "Did you find any pasta sauce?"

"Eventually."

"Oh," Jennifer