He hurt.
For the first time since he had left Maine, Oliver wanted comfort.
"Francesca," he said. He wasn't all that far from the West Coast. He
could probably get to Seattle in four or five days. He had been heading
there all the time but hadn't known it. He collected himself and drove
back to the motel. He was in pain, but he had a plan--get to Francesca.
Three long days of driving later, he pulled into the parking lot of the
hotel in Eugene where he had stayed when he had met his father. Seattle
was only six hours away. The next morning, he bought a bright red shirt
and a bottle of Laphroiag.
As he drove north on I5, he thought about Francesca and what to say to
her. He forgot it all as soon as he found a parking place, late in the
afternoon, several blocks from her address in Ballard. The city was
attractive, bustling, built on hills overlooking Puget Sound. It had
been hot in Tucson. Here, it was cool again, although Seattle was
milder than Maine.
He locked the Jeep and walked nervously along a sidewalk. He crossed a
street and passed several houses surrounded by large hedges. Children
called. He stopped. Francesca was standing at the edge of an elevated
lawn in front of the next house.
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