boarded. As the
bus left the harbor, they told the driver about a tourist who had died
of a heart attack pedaling his bicycle up that very hill an hour
earlier. "He was in his fifties," one said.

"Too soon," another said cheerfully.

"Grover and Henry are playing golf, but they're walking," said the
third.

The driver stopped at the turnoff to the park. Joe skipped out
gratefully. The grim reaper was sure to stay with the interested
audience. There was a parking lot and a grassy area by the water.
Jackson and several friends were carrying folding tables and chairs up
a rocky path. Joe took two chairs and followed them to a clearing on a
bluff above the water. Chairs were arranged in the traditional bride
and groom groups, a center aisle leading towards the edge of the bluff.
Rows of champagne glasses covered most of a table set up beside the
chairs. Coolers waited auspiciously on the ground behind the tables.

"You guys have thought of everything," Joe said to Jackson.

"Kate could run NATO," he said.

"Probably run it better," Joe said. "Gorgeous view."

"We were camping out here last year, and we thought it would be the
perfect place to get married."

They returned for the last of the chairs. A musician arrived carrying a
guitar case and a battery powered amp. He unpacked and began plunking
away at Bach and Vivaldi. A minister with a neatly trimmed beard stood
by a large madrone oak. He was well dressed, quiet, and
non-denominational to the point of disappearance. Joe, who was finding
himself increasingly fond of people over fifty, engaged him in
conversation. He looked as though he'd been created whole that morning
in the image of the Northwest, but he admitted to being from Vermont.
That was as far as Joe could get. The minister evaded all questions
about his youth, as though he had left a bad record behind--or maybe
just an uncouth one.

"Hi, stranger!" Joe turned to the familiar voice.

"Ingrid," he said, opening his arms. She advanced and held him tightly
for a moment before backing away with a satisfied smile. "You are
looking well," Joe said, "and don't tell me it's because of your happy
sex life."

"It's the Mediterranean diet."

"Olive oil," he said. Ingrid had lost a few pounds, although she didn't
need to. Her thick blonde hair was cut short and away from her even
features. Her expression was practical and good-natured, dominated by
eyes the color of transparent jade.

"You don't look so