paround laugh.
She had her mother's coloring--chestnut hair, light brown eyes, and
rosy cheeks.

"You'll like Jackson; he's very different."

"I'm sure I will. I liked Rolf--he was appealingly gloomy."

"Jackson's an artist. He gets mad when I say that; he says he's a
craftsman. You should see the things he makes: jewelry, furniture--he
can make anything."

"Speaking of art, your grandfather gave you a painting. It's in the
truck."

"Oh! Is it good?"

"I like it. I don't know if you will."

"Oh, Dad! Don't be such a parent. If you like it, I know it's good."
The fish sandwiches arrived, and Joe watched the toddler with an ice
cream cone in Honolulu, the girl veering her bike into a Maine hedge,
the teen-ager leaving home, the Seattle executive as she took a large
bite. "Mmmm," she said with her mouth full, "mmm--Ivar's."

"Have you heard from Maxie lately?" she asked.

"Not for a couple of months. He's still in New Zealand."

"I had a card from Auckland in August," Kate said. "Sounded like he was
having a good trip."

"How's your mom doing?

"Fine. She's got a new job working for a mineral exploration outfit.
Have you seen Ingrid?"

"Not recently," Joe said. "She's doing well, at least she was the last
time I saw her. She's been selling her jewelry, and her classes keep
her busy. Same as ever. She has a new boyfriend."

"Oh good. I love Ingrid. She always sends a Christmas card and tells me
how Maxie's doing." Kate had known Max since he was eight. They had
become brother and sister even though there was no blood relationship.
They had been especially close when Kate lived with Ingrid, Max, and
him during her high school years. Kate had been lucky, Joe thought, to
have had two mothers, or a mother and a half. His own mother had died
when he was seven. It was long ago, but he could remember well enough
that he'd never liked her very much.

After lunch Joe watched Kate walk with long strides toward her office,
hair bouncing on her shoulders. Strong, he thought proudly. He checked
in at The Edgewater, lay down on the bed, and didn't wake up until
four.

The days were getting shorter. A salty breeze drove layers of cloud
across the sound as Joe walked down Alaskan Way to the Elliot Bay Book
Company. The ocean was to his right, but he was headed south instead of
north as he would have been on the east coast. It took days in Seattle
to stop thinking that he was going the wrong way.

The bookstore was w