The drum was shaped like a
miniature conga, handmade with a skin head that was lashed tight. He
rested it on his lap and watched cars drive in. Twelve or fifteen
people got on the bus, most of them his age or younger, mostly women in
twos and threes.
Jennifer bounced in and sat beside him. "We'll pick up a few more on
the way. There's another group coming down the coast. I hope it doesn't
rain. Think positive thoughts, Oliver."
"What are they?"
"Oh, Silly," she slapped him on the arm. "Don't worry; you'll have fun.
_I_ am going to have fun!" She passed around a box of name labels and a
magic marker. "Aliases permitted," she said.
Forty-five minutes later, they stepped from the bus and gathered around
tables standing in a grassy field. Oliver had been there before. The
ocean was just out of sight through trees and down a steep bank. Paths
wound along a narrow wooded peninsula with views of islands, tiny
coves, wetlands, and pine groves. Picnic tables and grills waited in
small clearings. It was a popular place in winter for cross-country
skiing.
The second bus arrived. People milled about reading each other's name
tags. Oliver helped carry folding chairs from the back of the bus.
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