"Very. Out on the San Juan's"

"Lovely. Here's to their happiness." It was what Joe had spent the last two days doing. He drank the last of his beer and ordered another.

"I was working on a story the other night," he offered.

"Have you been writing long?"

"No. Well--depends. I've always kept notebooks. I've written some poems, and now I'm trying to write stories."

"I used to," she said.

"Write stories?"

"Yes."

"Wait a sec, I'm Joe Burke. What's your name?"

"Call me Isabelle," she said wryly.

"Isabelle! Call me Ishmael. My G.o.d, I spent a whole winter reading Moby d.i.c.k. I was working in San Francisco. Read a couple of pages every night sitting in a circle of lamp light with my back to a heater."

"Nice town--great book," Isabelle said, "although no one can really say why." She seemed quite experienced, in her early forties, maybe.

"You want to know the trouble I'm having?" Joe asked. She looked amused. "Writing," he added.

"Sure."

"I can't make the jump into fiction. I use something from real life, and then, if I leave anything out, I feel like a liar--like I haven't told the truth."

"Quilt," she said, looking across the gray water. "Patchwork quilt."

"What do you mean?"

"The story is the quilt. Made of patches: this person's face, that person's love, a cat you knew . . . You make up the quilt--the design--but the strength of it, its integrity, comes from the patches."

She finished her martini.

Joe's eyes opened wide. "I have to think about that."

"The quilt's the thing," she said offhandedly. "You have to care about it." She swiveled her chair and held her arm in the air. "Another round," she said. "On me."

He agreed and considered what she'd said. "A patchwork quilt. I can see it. What do you do now? Are you writing?"

"Not much. I've been working on songs."

"Oh great," Joe said. "I wish I could play an instrument."

"I have a keyboard that I take with me."

"Take with you? Do you travel a lot?"

"I keep moving," she said. "Do you live in Seattle?"

"No, Hawaii."

"Long flight," she said.

"I love it there. Have you been?"

"Once. I stayed in the Royal Hawaiian. Sunsets. A woman in white, like a queen, who sang ballads."

"Yeah, Emma--something, I can't remember. She's famous there. I live in Honolulu, but I don't get to the Royal Hawaiian very often. Can't afford it." Isabelle flicked a wrist dismissively. "You're not missing much."

"You're right about the sunsets. Wonderful." They drank to Hawaiian sunsets.

"So, Joe, you heading back soon?"

"Tomorrow afternoon, Isabelle." He was beginning to like her. "Come on over; we'll have a drink and listen to the Queen sing _Aloha Oe. _" She held his eye for a moment.

"Maybe I'll do that. I'm going to Banff next--for the music festival.

This is a nice time to be in the Canadian Rockies."

"You want something to eat?" he asked. They ordered two salads. Joe switched to wine. Isabelle started laughing more. Apparently she had all the money she needed to live in hotels, traveling slowly around a familiar route. It seemed like an hour, but it was probably two hours later when she pushed back from the table.

"Time to move," she said.

"Hey, it's been fun." He was letting go after the long weekend and was sorry to see her leave. She smiled slightly.

"How about a nightcap, Joe?"

"Sure." She reached into a small bag and handed him a key card. "I really have to go back to my room now. Why don't you come over in about twenty minutes? There's some Chardonnay in the convenience bar."

"How are you going to get in?" he asked.

"I have another one of these cards--keys--whatever you call them. Room 336."

"O.K." She wheeled away and Joe leaned back in his chair. It was dark outside. Rain trickled down the windows softening the harbor lights. He was tired of being alone. He stared at the harbor and savored the feeling of companionship, a circle of two in league against a rainy night. Was it Marx who said that the smallest indivisible human unit was two? He couldn't remember.

He knocked and entered when Isabelle answered. The wheelchair was empty at the end of the bed. He walked past the bathroom and stopped by the bed. Isabelle was under the covers, propped up against several pillows.

She had changed into a white nightgown and brushed out her hair. "Good timing, Joe. I'm ready for a gla.s.s of wine."

"Coming up," he said, embarra.s.sed. He opened the bottle, poured two gla.s.ses, and brought one over to her. There was a small table and chair in a dark corner of the room.

"Oh, Joe! Come here so we can talk." She patted the bed beside her as though he were a cat or a little boy. "Take off your shoes. You might as well be comfortable." He obeyed slowly. There was a dream like quality in the room, a scent of honeysuckle. She pointed a remote control and skipped through radio stations until she found jazz.

"Adult music," he said, balancing his wine and sliding next to her.

"All music is adult," she said, "with the possible exception of disco."