The reddish brown color on the
black background gave it a Navajo look. _If you're going to do
something, do it well,_ he reminded himself, pleased. That was another
of Owl's sayings; one that Oliver had made his own. Poor Owl. He had
not done something well the night he disappeared from his boat. Did he
have time to regret that he never won the Bermuda race? Was it a relief
or just a stupid accident? Oliver imagined dark water closing over Owl.
He shivered and put it out of his mind.
On Friday, Oliver nearly backed out. But the ruler glowed on his
kitchen table like a promise. "I don't know," he said. He took a
shower, put on clean clothes, and parked tentatively in Jacky's
driveway. He rang and waited. When she opened the door, he held the
ruler up in both palms. She looked at it and asked him in. Her eyes
were bright.
"Wine, Oliver." She pointed to glasses on the kitchen table. He poured
Washington State Chardonnay for each of them and held up one glass in a
silent toast. "Salud," she said. She turned the ruler over in her hand
thoughtfully. "Did you say it was for your mistress?"
"Yes," Oliver said. "The saleslady didn't say anything--probably
happens every five minutes.
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