"
"Conor didn't get home until very late. I had trouble waking him up to
watch the girls. I probably shouldn't have come."
"Do you want to go back? I'll walk with you to the gate-house."
"O.K. Just a second. Let's enjoy this."
Oliver refilled his cup. "Getting nippy," he said.
"Snow anytime," Francesca said. She looked at him and smiled--something
to share, their snow. "Conor's not been happy with me. He plays around.
It's a mess."
"Oh."
"I don't know what to do. We've been talking about making a change,
spending the winter in Costa Rica. He says that his job isn't going
anywhere; he wants a break to decide what to do next."
"Oh." Oliver tried for a bright side. "You could practice your Spanish."
"We could argue in Spanish," she said.
"What's his problem? Not that it's any of my business."
"I don't know. Mommy, I suppose. Conor tends to think that the world
owes him a living. Conor's world is 95% female. He's cute and needy and
out-front about it; there's always some woman ready to give him what he
wants."
"Tough life," Oliver said.
"He's not a happy man," she said, "at least, never for long. He uses
that, too--the wounded Conor.
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