. My instructor, Roland, finally said, 'Look, Joe, for God's sake--in
a story, sooner or later, something has to happen to somebody."' Joe
shook his head. "I kept trying to stop time, like a painter. I've got
it now; stories model, take place, in time. The meaning is embodied in
the movement--like a dance--you can't separate them." He sipped tea.
"The school has been good, but I'm stopping after this semester. Too
expensive. Diminishing returns. I just have to do it now--the writing."

"It has been good for you," Mo said. "I have news."

"Aha," Joe said.

"Rob Wilcox. You remember? On Kauai? He's offered to go into business
with me--a gallery and a fine art print shop with enough space to teach
classes. He has a building on Queen Street. He'll supply the space and
the money for equipment. I'll take care of the rest."

Joe's cheeks flushed slowly. So that was why she had been so hard to
reach.

"Rob and I have known each other a long time. Did I tell you that?"

He tried to remember.

"We've become--closer," she said.

"Lucky fellow."

"I hope you'll come to the grand opening. When I have a date I'll send
you an invitation."

"Of course I will. It's a terrific idea. You'll do a great job."

"A lot of work," she said into the middle distance. "But . . ." she
shrugged and smiled. "Can't wait to read your story."

They split the bill and left Hee Hing's, promising to get together
soon. Joe went straight to the Moana.

"Gilbert, I've got trouble."

"What's her name?"

Good old Gilbert.

Joe was upset. He had thought of Mo as a possible partner, or lover. He
had leaned on her without realizing it. It wasn't to be. Wilcox. Was it
always about money? No, that wasn't fair. He had another drink and
began to feel freer. "We're all grown up, here," he said in the
direction of the beach. He ordered one for the road and toasted, "Your
problem now, Wilcox." To hell with it. He declared the day over and
ambled up Kalakaua Avenue smiling at strangers.

When he got home, he found a letter with three British stamps and a
London return address. It was from Sarah, the girl who had stuck to her
story about Mike, the cat burglar. She had married a Brit and had two
children of her own. "I read your letter to my daughters and told them
that parents sometimes make mistakes. I can remember it as clearly as
if it were yesterday," she wrote. "I hope Mike has found another way to
make a living. Please do thank him for being n