"I like your clock." The man gave him a longer look and sipped coffee.
"I bought it at an auction. Never been sorry. Sometimes, you've got to
pay for quality; sometimes you get a deal."
"I like auctions," Oliver said.
"My name is Myron Marsh. I've been called, 'Swampy.' I've been called,
'Mellow.' I prefer, 'Myron.' "
"What! No 'Shorty?' '' The corner of Myron's mouth twitched, but he
said nothing. "O.K., Myron. I'm Oliver Prescott."
"You live around here, Oliver?"
"State Street, near the bridge."
"You know anything about investing?"
"No."
"What kind of money are you talking about?"
"Seventy-two thousand."
"Not a bad start," Myron said. "We could get some good balance with
that." He opened a filing cabinet and handed Oliver a form. "Tell you
what," he said. "Why don't you fill this out and come back with a check
when you're ready. Then we can talk about where you want to go with
this and what we might do."
"Thanks," Oliver said.
"Here's a booklet that explains our fees and general setup."
Oliver went home and read the material. The application provided for
joint ownership of the account. An idea formed. He didn't have a will.
If he died, his money would go to his mother. She didn't really need
it. Why not make Francesca joint owner? Then, if he died, she could use
it for herself and her girls. If she needed money for an emergency, it
would be there. She wouldn't have to do anything, just sign the form
and know that the account existed. She might not like the idea, might
be afraid of strings attached. But there weren't any, really--all she
had to do was sign the form and forget about it.
The idea made him feel good. He filled out the form with everything but
her signature, her mother's maiden name, and her social security
number. He called Myron to check about joint ownership. Either owner
could control the account, but he would be the primary owner,
responsible for taxes. Monthly statements could be sent to each owner.
"No need for that," he told Myron, "just one would be enough." They set
a time to meet on the following Monday. Oliver was assuming that he
would see Francesca Sunday morning on the beach.
On Saturday night, the weather forecast was for light rain and fog.
Oliver could barely see the bridge when he woke up. He made a pot of
coffee, drank one cup, and saved the rest in a large thermos which he
put in his shoulder bag along with two mugs, half a quart of milk, and
a manila envelope containing the account application. Forty minutes
later, he was sitting on a driftwood log near the spot at the beginning
of the beach where he had last met Francesca and where The Early People
had waited for the sun.
It was warm for November. The tide was out. The water was gray,
stippled and flattened by light rain. The air was fertile and salty.
Mist blurred the rocks. A dog barked somewhere beyond the other end of
the beach. Francesca appeared suddenly, holding a black umbrella over
her head. When Oliver could see her smile, he stood and smiled back.
"You made it," she said coming closer.
"Quite a trip," he said. He wanted to hug her, but jackets and hats and
her umbrella made it awkward. "How about some coffee?"
"Coffee? Superb!"