Oliver could barely see the bridge when he woke up. He made a pot of
coffee, drank one cup, and saved the rest in a large thermos which he
put in his shoulder bag along with two mugs, half a quart of milk, and
a manila envelope containing the account application. Forty minutes
later, he was sitting on a driftwood log near the spot at the beginning
of the beach where he had last met Francesca and where The Early People
had waited for the sun.
It was warm for November. The tide was out. The water was gray,
stippled and flattened by light rain. The air was fertile and salty.
Mist blurred the rocks. A dog barked somewhere beyond the other end of
the beach. Francesca appeared suddenly, holding a black umbrella over
her head. When Oliver could see her smile, he stood and smiled back.
"You made it," she said coming closer.
"Quite a trip," he said. He wanted to hug her, but jackets and hats and
her umbrella made it awkward. "How about some coffee?"
"Coffee? Superb!"
Oliver sat down on the log and poured them each a mug. "Milk?"
"Mmm."
"Say when . . ."
"When."
He handed her the mug. She sat beside him and shifted the umbrella to
partially cover him.
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