The Project Gutenberg eBook, O+F, by John Moncure WetterauThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it,give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.net** This is a COPYRIGHTED Project Gutenberg eBook, Details Below ** ** Please follow the copyright guidelines in thisfile. **Title: O+FAuthor: John Moncure WetterauRelease Date: February 9, 2004 [eBook #11005]Language: English***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK O+F***Copyright (c) 2003 by John Moncure WetterauO + FJohn Moncure WetterauCopyright (c) 2000 by John Moncure Wetterau.Library of Congress Number: 00-193498ISBN #: Hardcover 0-7388-5815-3Softcover 0-9729587-1-1This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs-NonCommercial License. Essentially, anyone isfree to copy, distribute, or perform this copyrighted work for non-commercial uses only, so long as the work is preservedverbatim and is attributed to the author. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd-nc/1.0/ or send a letter to:Creative Commons 559 Nathan Abbott Way Stanford, California 94305, USA.Published by:Fox Print Books137 Emery StreetPortland, ME 04102foxprintbooks@earthlink.net 207.775.6860This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or areused ...
The Project Gutenberg eBook, O+F, by John Moncure Wetterau
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it,
give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
www.gutenberg.net
** This is a COPYRIGHTED Project Gutenberg eBook, Details Below ** ** Please follow the copyright guidelines in this
file. **
Title: O+F
Author: John Moncure Wetterau
Release Date: February 9, 2004 [eBook #11005]
Language: English
***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK O+F***
Copyright (c) 2003 by John Moncure Wetterau
O + F
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 Commons Attribution-NoDerivs-NonCommercial License. Essentially, anyone is
free to copy, distribute, or perform this copyrighted work for non-commercial uses only, so long as the work is preserved
verbatim and is attributed to the author. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd-
nc/1.0/ or send a letter to:
Creative Commons 559 Nathan Abbott Way Stanford, California 94305, USA.
Published by:
Fox Print Books
137 Emery Street
Portland, ME 04102
foxprintbooks@earthlink.net 207.775.6860
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are
used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book was printed 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 and for offering useful suggestions. Thanks to Francois Camoin and the Vermont College MFAprogram for giving me a good shove down the road to fiction. And thanks to Ellen Miller for her consistent
encouragement and support.
for Rosy
1.
Tall. Dark hair. Nose almost straight. Mouth curving around prominent teeth. Beautiful, Oliver realized as their eyes met
perfectly.
"Francesca, sorry I'm late," another woman said, guiding two girls into the next booth.
"I just got here."
"Hi, Mommy." Francesca's smile turned down, traveled around, and turned up independently at each corner.
"Hi, Sweetheart. Turn around, now."
One of the girls was looking tentatively at Oliver, holding the top of the booth with both hands. He waved at her, raised his
eyebrows, and bent to his eggs. Toast. Nothing like toast. He wiped up the remaining yolk. 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 and
prepared to leave. As he slid sideways across the green plastic seat, he again caught the woman's eyes. They were
calm and questioning, brown with deepening centers the color of the inner heart of black walnut. He stood 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 flakes of a northeaster coasted innocently to the ground. Francesca—what a smile! She reminded him of
the young Sinatra in From Here To Eternity, awkward and graceful at the same time. The friend was heavier and looked
unmarried, a career teacher, maybe. Problems on short leashes yapped around her heels. Oliver shrugged, pulled a
watch cap 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," George said.
"Aren't we romantic."
"Artists live on the edge, Olive Oil. Where the view is." A pickup passed at high speed, hitting a pothole and splattering
mud across the windshield. "Moron!" George reached for the wiper switch.
The street reappeared. "Ahh," Oliver said, "now there's a view."
"Why is it, the worse the weather, the worse they drive?" George asked.
"Dunno. It isn't even bad yet."
"Assholes," George said.
"Yeah. I bought some black walnut," Oliver said. "I just saw a woman in
Becky's; she had eyes the same color."
"You want I should go back?"
"I'm too short for her," Oliver said.
"You never know. Some of those short people in Hollywood have big reputations."
"They're stars," Oliver said. "I'm just short."
"What are you doing with the wood?"
"Haven't decided—maybe a table."
"I'm getting into casting. You ought to come over; I'm going to try out my furnace."
"Casting what?""Bronze. Small pieces."
"Hey, whoa, let me out." Oliver pointed at the ferry terminal, and
George stopped.
"Yeah, come on over tomorrow morning, if you're not doing anything."
"O.K., I'll see."
George beeped twice and drove into the thickening snow. Oliver bought a ticket for Peaks Island. The ferry was nearly
empty, cheerful with its high snub bow painted yellow, white superstructure, and red roof. It was not as spirited as the red
and black tugs that herd tankers to the Montreal pipeline, nothing could match the tugboats—but the ferry was close; it
had the human touch, a dory that couldn't stay away from cheesecake, broad in the beam, resolute, proof against the cold
rollers of the outer bay. After two long blasts, the ferry churned away from the wharf. A line of gulls on the lee side of a
rooftop watched them move into the channel and gather speed.
Twenty minutes later, the ferry slowed, shuddered, and stopped at the Peaks Island landing. Oliver walked uphill to the
main street, unsure why he had come. Habit took him around by his former house. No lights were on, no sign of anyone
home. He continued around the block, surprised at his disappointment. He hadn't seen Charlotte for six months and had
no reason to see her now. He considered this over a cup of coffee at Will's. It was natural to check in sometimes with old
friends. I mean, we were married, he told his cup.
Jealousy is a symptom—like the effects of drought. Owl told him that once. They had been standing on the club dock,
having one of their rare conversations. He was telling Owl about Kiersten, how she wouldn't take him seriously, her smile
always for Gary—star everything. Owl's voice was sympathetic but with a dissatisfied edge, as though he were impatient
with or imprisoned by his superiority, his tenure at Brown, his aluminum boat, one of the fastest on the sound.
Oliver never thought to ask for an explanation, and then, sadly, it was too late. It was years before he understood Owl's
jealousy pronouncement. He wasn't jealous any longer, certainly not where Kiersten was concerned. God, she'd driven
everybody crazy. Territory—now that was different. You want your own territory, your own mate, your house, your space. It
still pissed him off to see his old garage surrounded by Mike's messy piles of building materials. But he wasn't jealous.
Charlotte was better off without him; she had a child, finally.
The waitress had a tolerant smile. Thank God for waitresses. He left a big tip and got back on the ferry.
Snow