Copyright (c) 2003 by John Moncure Wetterau
John Moncure Wetterau
Copyright (c) 2000 by John Moncure Wetterau.
Library of Congress Number: 00-193498
ISBN #: Hardcover 0-7388-5815-3
Softcover 0-9729587-1-1
This work is licensed under the Creative CommonsAttribution-NoDerivs-NonCommercial License. Essentially, anyone is freeto copy, distribute, or perform this copyrighted work fornon-commercial uses only, so long as the work is preserved verbatim andis attributed to the author. To view a copy of this license, visithttp://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd-nc/1.0/ or send a letter to:
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Published by:
Fox Print Books
137 Emery Street
Portland, ME 04102
foxprintbooks@earthlink.net207.775.6860
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidentseither are the product of the author's imagination or are usedfictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living ordead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. This book wasprinted in the United States of America.
Acknowledgements:
Cover art by Majo Keleshian. I want to thank Majo, Sylvester Pollet,and Nancy Wallace for suffering through early versions of the book andfor offering useful suggestions. Thanks to Francois Camoin and theVermont College MFA program for giving me a good shove down the road tofiction. And thanks to Ellen Miller for her consistent encouragementand support.
for Rosy
1.
Tall. Dark hair. Nose almost straight. Mouth curving around prominentteeth. Beautiful, Oliver realized as their eyes met perfectly.
"Francesca, sorry I'm late," another woman said, guiding two girls intothe next booth.
"I just got here."
"Hi, Mommy." Francesca's smile turned down, traveled around, and turnedup independently at each corner.
"Hi, Sweetheart. Turn around, now."
One of the girls was looking tentatively at Oliver, holding the top ofthe booth with both hands. He waved at her, raised his eyebrows, andbent to his eggs. Toast. Nothing like toast. He wiped up the remainingyolk. Where's the husband? Probably one of those jerks in a Land Rover.A bad golfer. Cheats. Christ. Oliver drank the rest of his coffee andprepared to leave. As he slid sideways across the green plastic seat,he again caught the woman's eyes. They were calm and questioning, brownwith deepening centers the color of the inner heart of black walnut. Hestood and nodded in the Japanese manner. No one would have noticed,unless perhaps for her friend.
He buttoned his coat before pushing open the outer door of the diner.The air was damp, tinged with car exhaust and diesel. The first flakesof a northeaster coasted innocently to the ground. Francesca—what asmile! She reminded him of the young Sinatra in From Here ToEternity, awkward and graceful at the same time. The friend washeavier and looked unmarried, a career teacher, maybe. Problems onshort leashes yapped around her heels. Oliver shrugged, pulled a watchcap over his ears, and walked toward the Old Port.
A car pulled over. "Olive Oil!" George Goodbean shouted. "Want a ride?"
"Taking my life in my hands," Oliver said, getting in.
"It's a good day to die,