Oliver drifted to one side of the room and looked
at books--Joseph Campbell, Robert Bly, biographies of lesser known New
Age gurus. A voice caught his attention and he glanced at a tall man
telling a boat story. It was Conor. A well padded blonde stood by his
elbow and patted his arm when he said, "It wasn't _my_ graveyard."
Conor scanned the horizon for approval. Oliver had just time to go
neutral and stop staring. He was startled. It was as though Francesca
might be right around the corner. He went over to Jennifer who
suggested that they think about leaving--Emma was tired. Oliver agreed
and then edged up to the group where Conor was comparing investments
with another handsome salesman type.
There was a pause in the conversation, and Oliver asked, "Do you know
Myron Marsh?"
"Marshmallow? Sure," Conor said. "I used to have resources with him.
Too conservative for me. You've got to step up to the plate--uh . . .
Have we met? I'm Conor."
"Oliver."
"Up to the plate, Oliver." He looked down, charming, sorry for Oliver
who was too short to hit it out of the park.
"Ah," Oliver said.
"Myron's a good man," Conor said, "known him for years.
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