" He punched Oliver
lightly on the arm and unlocked a sleek black Toyota. Oliver watched
him drive away. Porter was like a character in a comic strip; a six
foot scone in a thought balloon hovered over his car.
Oliver collected his mail. Gifford Sims of The First Fundamentalist
Hospital was interested in talking with him. There were a couple of
bills. A Thanksgiving invitation from Amanda. "Mother and Paul are
coming. Heather has been asking about you."
12.
Sunday morning was cold and windy. Oliver waited at the beach, walking
back and forth in front of the driftwood log. After half an hour, he
poured a cup of coffee from the thermos. Steam curled up and was blown
away. He had an interview the following day at the Fundamentalist
hospital; he ought to iron a shirt. Wear a tie? Francesca appeared,
walking with long strides.
"Hi," she said.
"Just in time," he said, holding his cup in the air. "I was going to
drink yours. What's the matter?"
"Conor and I are having trouble. God, that smells good!" Oliver handed
her a cup. "Mmm--nice and hot."
"I'm sorry," Oliver said.
"I don't want to bother you about it . . ."
"It's no bother.
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