He
took a bus from Eugene to Portland. The Willamette Valley was green and
fertile, a nice after-image on the following afternoon as the plane
lowered over the brown Maine woods and the steely blue Atlantic. He
took a cab to State Street and had a reunion with Verdi. Porter had
left the apartment in tidy shape. There was a letter from Francesca.
She had received the box and the heart.
11.
Francesca's note was written on a 3X5 card:
O,
Thank you.
F.
Warmth rushed through Oliver as he stared at her writing. Francesca was
answering in kind; she had accepted his valentine. "What do you think
about that, my friend?" he asked Verdi. "What do you think about that?"
Verdi bumped against his ankle, a sign of high satisfaction. It was
good to be home.
Oliver looked around the living room. The mantle was empty without the
walnut box. He wished that he had a picture of Francesca to take its
place. He unrolled the snakeskin and pinned it vertically to the wall
by the steps, admiring the silver and ivory colors and the dark
diamonds that had curled around the snake.
He went early to bed and spent a long time looking out at the night and
remembering the trip: the gardens and the Japanese restaurant in
Portland, Michiko standing by her moss-rock, Diamond Head, The Devil's
Churn, his father's face--there had been much to see and few words.
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