O+F | Page 9

left over for something else or for extra if he screwed up the dovetails.
"Here you go," he said to Verdi. He replaced the offending piece of pine with the original scratched walnut. "Nothing but the best for Team Oliver." He looked at the heart. "Team O." Verdi forgave him without moving. "Bedtime," Oliver said.
On Monday, Oliver cut pieces for the sides, top, and bottom of the box. He bought a dovetail saw and made several cardboard templates for the joints. It was a way of thinking about them. They were tricky, had to interlock perfectly, one end male, one end female.
"What have you been up to?" Jennifer Lindenthwaite asked on Tuesday morning.
"Making a box," Oliver said.
"Oh, that's exciting."
"It's harder than it looks--for me, anyway."
Jennifer wanted him to look at her and not at an imagined box. She was a solid blonde, Nordic, with broad cheeks and a big smile. "I worry about Rupert when he does things around the house. Something usually goes wrong."
"Ah . . ." Oliver said. "A minor flaw."
"Rupert is wonderful," she said. "Now, the mailing list. Hi, Jacky." Oliver turned and was astonished to see Francesca's friend in the doorway. "Jacky is one of our volunteers. She does a lot of the mailing list work. I thought you could work together on this. Jacky, this is Oliver Prescott."
Jacky stepped forward. "Jacky Chapelle," she said. She had strong cheekbones and dark blonde hair, cut short and swept back. Her eyes were hazel colored. She had a winged messenger look that lightened her direct, almost blunt, expression and her powerful shoulders.
"Uh, hi." Oliver shook her hand. "Did you find any pasta sauce?"
"Eventually."
"Oh," Jennifer said. "You know each other."
"Not exactly," he said. Jennifer looked at him closely. _Hell is being in one room with two women_, Owl said. Oliver cleared his throat. "Where's the computer?"
"Just down the hall." Jennifer led them to another room. "Let me know if you need anything."
"Well," Oliver said as they were left alone.
"You don't look like a programmer," Jacky said.
"Thank you."
She showed him a box of file cards--the mailing list. "Here is what we have. It would be nice to be able to print mailing labels, and we need to keep track of who has contributed."
"Sure," Oliver said. "And probably some other things."
"Yes," she said. "Some of the members are summer people. We need to know their winter addresses."
"What's winter?"
"Labor Day to the 4th of July," she said.
"The Maine we know and love," Oliver said. "We can keep individual winter start and end dates for each name, use defaults if we don't have the information."
"Right," she said. "Ideally, the list would interact with other programs someday. It has members on it, and people who aren't members but who are interested. Also, media people. And legislators. Sometimes we send special mailings. I suppose we'll need some kind of type code."
"O.K.," Oliver said. They discussed requirements and agreed to meet the following Saturday morning. Jacky left, and Oliver gave a thumbs up sign to Jennifer who was talking on the phone.
Not a bad little job, he thought, driving back to Portland. He'd been itching to ask Jacky about Francesca, but something had stopped him. He wanted to know Jacky better. She was sure of herself and moved comfortably. Her breasts were invading his consciousness; he found it hard to think about Francesca at the same time.
That afternoon, he began cutting the dovetails. It took concentration; hours went by. But when he fit the first two ends together it seemed as though it had been only a few minutes. "All right!" he said, leaving the attached pieces on the table.
Verdi came in looking satisfied. The weather was warmer, much better for prowling. More snow was possible, but the chances were against it. Oliver put away his long johns for the winter. "Probably too early," he said to Verdi, "but so what."
The next morning, as he waited for a seat in Becky's, he saw a familiar figure in a booth. She was facing away from him, but he was fairly sure it was Francesca when she turned her head. She stood and walked toward him, following the man who was with her. Francesca, yes. The man was tall and blonde with a wide forehead and a long triangular face. He had an easy vain expression, as though he had a full day ahead of being admired. Francesca's head was down. She walked carefully. As they passed, her eyes met Oliver's and he realized that she had already recognized him, had known that he was there. Her face was resigned with traces of humor around the edges. He was struck by her calm, so much like his. They shared a moment of this calm--the briefest of moments--but it felt as though it expanded infinitely outward around them. Did she