"Mmm."
"Say when . . ."
"When."
He handed her the mug. She sat beside him and shifted the umbrella to
partially cover him. "I love my valentine."
"Good. My friend, George, is an artist. He showed me how to cast it.
What did you do with it? Not that it's any of my business."
"Hid it." Francesca giggled. "Where did you get the box?"
"Made it."
"I wondered," she said. "It's beautiful. Did you find your father?"
"I did." He told her about Hawaii and meeting his father at The Devil's
Churn in Oregon.
"Dramatic," she said. Her eyes were soft.
"It was. It was the way he wanted it."
"Did you feel that he was your father?"
"Yes. We're different. I'm American, and he's Japanese-American, more
Japanese--he lives in Japan. But we were the same underneath--same kind
of seriousness or intensity or something."
"What does he do?"
"He's an architect. He was teaching a class at the University of
California, Berkeley, until the end of the year."
"Is he married?"
"Yes. Two children--a boy and a girl, grown."
"Oliver, you have a half brother and a half sister!"
"It's true. I haven't absorbed it yet."
"Did you like him?"
"Yes. He was pretty impressive. Disciplined. Didn't say much. He gave
me some money--said you were only as rich as what you give away. What's
your mother's maiden name?"
Francesca stared at him. "Boisverte," she said.
"How do you spell it?" She told him and he repeated the letters to make
sure that he had them right. "French," he said.
"Mais oui. Maman married Frankie, and here I am."
"They did nice work. You want more coffee?" He refilled their mugs and
put away the thermos. "Francesca . . ."
"Yes?"
"You're probably going to think I'm nuts. I hope you won't be mad at
me." He took a deep breath. "I'm putting the money my father gave me in
a brokerage account. I want you to be joint owner, so that if anything
happens to me you'll have the money. Or, if you need some for an
emergency--it will be there." Francesca took a swallow of coffee and
stared out to sea.
"You're a good one," she said. And then, "I'm married to Conor."
"You wouldn't have to pay any taxes on it. I do that. You wouldn't get
statements or anything. It would just be there if you need it. It could
be backup for you and the girls, security . . ."
"Independence?" she teased.
"Well--yes, if you want it." The fat was in the fire.
"Jacky said you were a sweetheart."
Oliver's jaw dropped. Francesca laughed. "She said that she checked you
out. She had hopes for you, but she said that the two of you were
incompatible for the long run."
"Uh--she's right."
"Don't be embarrassed," Francesca said. "How else were you going to
find out? Look, I love Jacky, but I wouldn't want to be married to her."
The image of Jacky attempting to intimidate Francesca with a whip made
Oliver burst out laughing. "No," he said, sputtering, "no." Francesca
gave him a curious look. "Good looking woman, though," he went on. "Not
as beautiful as you."
She accepted this without comment. It was a quality Oliver liked in
her. Francesca _was_ beautiful. She knew it and didn't make a fuss
about it.
"I want the money to have a purpose outside myself," he said.
"Seriously--it would help me. It makes me feel better. I'm going to get
some work as soon as I can, so that I don't spend it. I have the form
right here." He held his bag under the umbrella and pulled out the
form. "If I can keep it from getting soaked . . ." He reached into his
pocket for a ballpoint pen. "Can I write on your back? I mean, use your
back? 'BOISVERTE.'" He said the letters as he wrote them. "What's your
social security number?"
She hesitated and then told him. "A very nice number," he said.
"I've always thought so. It will be especially nice if I make it to
retirement age."
"All you have to do is sign," Oliver said. "Here." He handed her the
pen and swiveled his body so that she could use his back.
"Yi! What am I doing?" The pen moved firmly across his shoulder blade.
"A good thing, that's what you're doing--what we're doing," Oliver
said, putting the application in the bag.
"Cute pen," she said.
"It's a space pen--writes upside down or in zero gravity. NASA uses it."
"My father worked for NASA."
"Oh, yeah? What did he do?"
"He was an engineer, called himself a launch pad maintenance man. He
and my mom live near Daytona. He's retired."
"You don't have a southern accent."
"I grew up in Brunswick, just down the road from Bowdoin. My dad worked
on the base for years. He's from upstate New York."
"And your mother?"
"Local gal. She's gotten used to Florida. I don't know if I could. I
mean, you can get used to just about anything; but . . ."
"Nice in January," Oliver said. "I know what you mean. I grew up in
Connecticut." A harder shower passed over them.
"I love the rain," Francesca said.
"Me, too." They sat and finished their coffee, watching the rain and
absorbing their conversation.
"Bye, Oliver," Francesca said finally, standing with the umbrella.
"You're going to get wet."
"I won't melt." She smiled quickly, understanding it as he meant, that
he would be there for her dependably. She walked back the way she had
come. Oliver stayed, enjoying the calm. Francesca had that effect on
him. When he was with her, he felt that there was nowhere he needed to
go. He was already there, at the center. The world spread around them
at greater and greater distances.
Jacky! He felt a stir of affection and shook his head. He should have
known she would tell Francesca--the big picture, anyway, if not the
details. He hoped Jacky would find someone soon. She wasn't bashful.
There was bound to be somebody in Maryland who would love to oblige
her. Whoever he was, he was going to get a workout--and good crab
cakes. Jacky had been straight with him. Oliver appreciated that. And
he'd been straight with her. Maybe that was why he had a warm feeling
when he thought of her; there was no residue of guilt or things held
back.
He stretched and walked to the main road, taking the track along the
rocks and then though the woods. He had left the Jeep in the approach
area by the gate-house; the park was officially closed. A piece of
paper was folded under one windshield wiper. It had a heart on it,
drawn in pencil. When he got home, he taped it over the mantel.
Myron read through the application the next day and tapped his desktop
slowly. "The co-owner," he said, "will have full privileges."
"Right."
"If she calls and identifies herself and says, "Myron, sell everything
and send me a check," that's what I'll do."
"Right."
"Very good," Myron said dubiously. "Just making sure." He put the
application and the check in a folder. "So, how quick do you want to
get rich?"
"That's a trick question, I bet," Oliver said.
Myron appraised him again. "It is and it isn't," he said. "Rewards are
what you get for taking risk. If you want a big reward right away, you
have to take a big risk. Over a longer period, you can take smaller
risks--the smaller rewards add up; the smaller losses don't wipe you
out. But there's another consideration." He drew a double headed arrow
on the top of a yellow pad. "People have different senses of time."
Myron darkened each arrowhead. "Some live for the future; some live in
the moment; some--most--are in the middle. It's a natural thing. As far
as risk/reward goes, we can keep a given balance in any time-horizon.
We can be risk-adverse, say, short-term or long-term." Myron underlined
the arrow.
"What we don't want to do is mix up the two. Short--term and long-term
investments are different. Not only are the investments themselves
different, but someone who is patient and looks far ahead won't be
happy with in-and-out activity. Someone who is action-oriented, who is
used to seeing results right away, won't wait years for a company to
develop or for interest rates to drop. You see what I'm getting at?"
"I do," Oliver said. "It's interesting. I guess I'm more toward the
patient end. Risk? I don't mind risk. But I wouldn't want to lose more
than half. It's important to me that half, anyway, always be there."
Myron wrote a few words on the pad.
"There are advantages to the patient approach," he said. "Taxes are
lower if you hold securities long term. You can buy into promising
companies cheaply--if you can give them a few years to grow."
"I like that," Oliver said. Myron made another note.
"How about if I get you started, make the first buys?"
"Sounds good."
"As time goes on and you get into it, you may want to take a more
active part in making the decisions. We'll talk as we go along."
"O.K."
"You'll get a monthly statement."
"Just one--to me," Oliver interrupted.
"Yes," Myron added to his notes. "One statement. Call me or drop by any
time."
"O.K. Thank you." Oliver prepared to leave. "When do we start making
money?"
"Soon as the check clears," Myron said.
Should be interesting, Oliver thought, walking home. Myron was a
realist. He didn't seem like someone who would rip you off or make
hurried decisions. Porter came out the front door just as Oliver turned
in from the sidewalk.
"Hey Porter, thanks for taking care of Verdi. I haven't seen you since
I got back."
"No problem. It was a help, actually. And, it gave me a chance to get
to know Arlen better." Porter beamed.