Part 22 (1/2)

The next morning he called Porter and told him when he'd be back. He took a bus from Eugene to Portland. The Willamette Valley was green and fertile, a nice after-image on the following afternoon as the plane lowered over the brown Maine woods and the steely blue Atlantic. He took a cab to State Street and had a reunion with Verdi. Porter had left the apartment in tidy shape. There was a letter from Francesca.

She had received the box and the heart.

11.

Francesca's note was written on a 3X5 card:

O,

Thank you.

F.

Warmth rushed through Oliver as he stared at her writing. Francesca was answering in kind; she had accepted his valentine. ”What do you think about that, my friend?” he asked Verdi. ”What do you think about that?”

Verdi b.u.mped against his ankle, a sign of high satisfaction. It was good to be home.

Oliver looked around the living room. The mantle was empty without the walnut box. He wished that he had a picture of Francesca to take its place. He unrolled the snakeskin and pinned it vertically to the wall by the steps, admiring the silver and ivory colors and the dark diamonds that had curled around the snake.

He went early to bed and spent a long time looking out at the night and remembering the trip: the gardens and the j.a.panese restaurant in Portland, Michiko standing by her moss-rock, Diamond Head, The Devil's Churn, his father's face--there had been much to see and few words.

What was there to say about these things? Owl had cautioned him more than once: ”_Listen to what people say, but pay more attention to what they do._” What would he _do_ with the treasures of this trip?

Treasure, literally. One thing he could do was to put his father's money to work. He decided to open a stock brokerage account. He needed to get a programming project, so that he wouldn't start spending the money. And he needed to see Francesca. She was more fun to think about than job interviews; he drifted to sleep remembering her on Crescent Beach.

In the morning, he answered two job advertis.e.m.e.nts that were in the paper and then ate breakfast at Becky's. The day seemed to have started without him--jet lag. The booth where he had first seen Francesca was empty. He imagined her there and felt better, more centered.

He walked to Monument Square and entered one of the big name brokerages. He left quickly, put off by slick advertis.e.m.e.nts on the walls and expensively dressed men exuding earnestness. Farther along the Square, he found a local firm staffed by a short man with a tired expression. The top of his head shone. Brown graying hair started just above his ears, swept back, and hung loosely over the back of his s.h.i.+rt collar. He was eating a bagel. A grandfather clock stood in one corner.

”I'm thinking about opening an account,” Oliver explained.

The man swallowed and raised his coffee mug. ”Why?”

”I like your clock.” The man gave him a longer look and sipped coffee.

”I bought it at an auction. Never been sorry. Sometimes, you've got to pay for quality; sometimes you get a deal.”

”I like auctions,” Oliver said.

”My name is Myron Marsh. I've been called, 'Swampy.' I've been called, 'Mellow.' I prefer, 'Myron.' ”

”What! No 'Shorty?' '' The corner of Myron's mouth twitched, but he said nothing. ”O.K., Myron. I'm Oliver Prescott.”

”You live around here, Oliver?”

”State Street, near the bridge.”

”You know anything about investing?”

”No.”