een
to that were dominated by ancient family feuds and personal problems.
On the other hand, no flying plates, no loud exits, no sobbing? He
wondered if maybe he hadn't missed something. It was too bad that his
father and Ann hadn't been there. Probably, he should call and see how
they were. Kate would check in, no doubt; she and his father had a warm
and easy relationship.

The Clipper docked mid-afternoon, and he checked in at his home away
from home. His mind was too busy for sleep, so he took his notebook
down to the bar and sipped a beer by the window.

"The writer," a voice said in a husky contralto. Joe looked up. The
woman in a wheelchair who had watched him on Thursday was rolling
slowly by.

"Hi," Joe said. Her face was sad and intense. Her eyes were large,
brown, and circular behind round glasses. Her hair was light brown,
shoulder length. Her coloring was warm, slightly flushed, whether from
makeup or not he couldn't tell. She wore a light cotton blouse with
bark colored buttons down the front. Her lap was covered by a blanket
with a Southwestern motif.

She stopped. "I saw you in here the other night. What are you writing,
if you don't mind my asking?"

"Oh, nothing," he said, closing the notebook. "Just notes. My daughter
got married this weekend."

"Ah."

"Want a beer or something?" He felt like talking. She turned towards
the table, and he moved a chair out of the way.

"Thank you." The bartender came over. "The usual," she said. He brought
her a glistening martini. "I like a vodka martini about this time. Was
it a nice wedding?"

"Very. Out on the San Juan's"

"Lovely. Here's to their happiness." It was what Joe had spent the last
two days doing. He drank the last of his beer and ordered another.

"I was working on a story the other night," he offered.

"Have you been writing long?"

"No. Well--depends. I've always kept notebooks. I've written some
poems, and now I'm trying to write stories."

"I used to," she said.

"Write stories?"

"Yes."

"Wait a sec, I'm Joe Burke. What's your name?"

"Call me Isabelle," she said wryly.

"Isabelle! Call me Ishmael. My God, I spent a whole winter reading Moby
Dick. I was working in San Francisco. Read a couple of pages every
night sitting in a circle of lamp light with my back to a heater."

"Nice town--great book," Isabelle said, "although no one can really say
why." She seemed quite experienced, in her early forties, maybe.

"You want