Her breasts were invading his consciousness; he found it
hard to think about Francesca at the same time.
That afternoon, he began cutting the dovetails. It took concentration;
hours went by. But when he fit the first two ends together it seemed as
though it had been only a few minutes. "All right!" he said, leaving
the attached pieces on the table.
Verdi came in looking satisfied. The weather was warmer, much better
for prowling. More snow was possible, but the chances were against it.
Oliver put away his long johns for the winter. "Probably too early," he
said to Verdi, "but so what."
The next morning, as he waited for a seat in Becky's, he saw a familiar
figure in a booth. She was facing away from him, but he was fairly sure
it was Francesca when she turned her head. She stood and walked toward
him, following the man who was with her. Francesca, yes. The man was
tall and blonde with a wide forehead and a long triangular face. He had
an easy vain expression, as though he had a full day ahead of being
admired. Francesca's head was down. She walked carefully. As they
passed, her eyes met Oliver's and he realized that she had already
recognized him, had known that he was there.
Pages:
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47