of lighthouse and/or lobster boat paintings he could sell, if they were cheap enough. The portraits and the figures were different. Drawn or done fully in oils, they were given away, or nearly. It was hard to put a price on them.

"How well you look, Don," Kai said.

"Thank you. I'm having my annual burst of optimism. Did Riles tell you that I'm off to Maine tomorrow?"

"Riles never tells me anything."

"Mother, really!" Riles appeared and put an arm around her shoulders. They were handsome together, short and dark with identical flashing smiles. Riles's hairline had receded considerably, and Kai's hair had long ago turned a tarnished silver, but they both were slim and upright and moved with a lack of effort that made Don feel as though he were dragging a wagon behind him. "I only just found out. Don is secretive, you know."

"Don is not good at planning," Don said.

"We must count on the turning of the seasons, Mother, the great migrations, to bring him back to Sherman's Retreat."

"He is not a goose, Dear." She turned to Don. "The sooner you come back, the better."

"Honk," Don said, embarrassed, and added, "if you love Jesus."

"I think this calls for a Riles Blaster. Don? Mother?"

Riles Blasters were made from light rum, Grand Marnier, lime juice, and other secret ingredients combined with ice and served, after great roaring from the blender, in sweating silver tumblers. Riles claimed that they prolonged life by rendering stress inoperable and irrelevant. A Riles Blaster, he pronounced, allowed one to focus on what mattered. "What mattered" was left undefined, allowing to each a certain latitude. They toasted what mattered and then "Absent loved ones."

Blasters were reliable—one brought a sigh; two put a helpless smile on your face. It was best to switch to wine at that point. Another virtue: "A modest red becomes—acceptable." Riles pronounced each syllable of "acceptable" so lightly and with such pleasure that you had to agree. The dark side of Riles was private. Don understood and left it alone.

"Will you be seeing that attractive friend of yours?" Kai made her innocent face.

"I usually do—at least once. I'll try."

"I love that oil of her as a young woman. Would you part with it? We think it belongs in the permanent collection."

Riles raised his eyebrows, indicating that "we" meant "she."

"You may have it, of course."

"We can't afford what it's worth."

"You don't have to buy it. I'll give it to you. It's yours."

"Don, you must take something at least—for the materials." She went into the living room and returned with a check which she handed to him. "I have wanted that painting for so long," she said, breaking a silence.

"That's a hell of a lot of materials."

"Good. More paintings! It's worth ten times that."

"Quite so," Riles said.

"Well." Don raised his glass. "Thanks."

"Bon voyage." They clinked glasses and that was that. Riles and Kai were skilled at such things; they had a knack for moving on. It was a part of their youthfulness. Good genes helped, too, Don thought. Not to mention the financial wisdom of dear departed Redmond.

An hour later Don said goodnight. Feeling almost a member of the family, he went downstairs and fell asleep on the bed in the basement.

The next day he made his way to the park. "Mornin', Ruby."

"Morning to you. You late today."

"Going to be a long day. I'm taking the train north."

"Oh, my."

Don pulled the drawing from the cardboard tube and unrolled it, holding it up for her to see.

"Wooo," she said, "I used to be better lookin'."

"You still good looking."

"I like it."

"I signed it here." He pointed.

"Don Dela—hanty," she read.

"An original Delehanty. You hang on to it, maybe it will be worth something, someday."

"What you mean?"

He rolled the drawing and put it back in the tube. "It's for you; it's a present." He held it out. Ruby hesitated and then took it.

"Been a while since I had a present."

"So," Don said, "take care. See you when I get back."

"Lord willing. Thank you. Thank you for the present." The walls came down and she smiled like a girl.

"My pleasure." He bowed and walked toward the river. The Silver Meteor was due at 5:50.

Don got to bed with Lorna that summer. She wasn't quite it, though he loved her and would never tell her that. He did a portrait of her, his best yet, and gave it to Molly knowing that Lorna wouldn't accept it or would feel guilty for not paying if she did. The days were long and intense, but the summer was gone in a flash.

Strangely, he was offered a show in New York—his other long time dream—by a gallery owner who was after Lorna. He did not want to be involved in their relationship. He turned the show down, pretending that the requirements were too much trouble. It probably wouldn't have worked out, anyway, he thought. Some people have a knack for dangling what you want in front of you; when you reach for it, it disappears.

Late in October he went over to Lorna's and said goodbye. She seemed sad and a bit relieved. Molly had tears in her eyes and hugged him wholeheartedly.

The next morning a cold rain was bringing down the leaves as Don carried his bag to the bus station. The shoulders of his tan raincoat were wet through when he boarded the Greyhound for Boston. Three rows back, he found an empty seat by a window and looked out at the glistening street. He saw a painting, full of light.

Waiting for Happiness

Spring comes late in Maine. Snow changes to rain; branch tips redden; you can see your breath. Not a whole lot different than winter until the daffodils, crab apples, and forsythia bloom. The sun skips off the water, impossibly bright, impossibly blue. You can almost almost hear the cracking of seeds, buried and forgotten.

Charlie Garrett was as hardnosed as most. He kept going, did what he had to. "Ninety percent of success is showing up," Woody Allen said. Charlie repeated that in dire times—before medical checkups or visits to his brother, Orson.

Orson knew a lot about success and never hesitated to pass it on. "What you need, Charlie, is a Cessna. You aren't supposed to spin them, but you can. That'll clear your head, Charlie, straight down, counting as a barn comes around—one time, two times, three times—correct and pull out nice and easy." Orson dipped his knees, lowering his flattened palm. Or a catboat: "A solid little Marshall, Charlie. Putter around, take some cutie coasting. You're in sailor heaven, man, all those islands."

"I know some cuties," Miranda had said.

"Last cutie took my silver garlic press. Well, she didn't take it; she borrowed it and never returned it."

"Call her up and get it back," Orson said.

"That's what she wants you to do." Miranda was the best thing about
Orson.

"I got another one."

"Where the hell did you find a silver garlic press?" Orson was impressed.

"It's aluminum, I think, or a composite material."

"Oh."

It was