"Oooh," she said.

"My contribution to your education."

"Cool. Thanks." Within minutes a meal appeared on the table. "How do you cook without pans, Joe?"

"A pot and a wok--what more do you need?"

"Really, Joe." She sniffed his olive oil. "I knew I should have brought some," she said.

He uncorked a bottle of Chianti and gave her the house gla.s.s. "I'll use the mug. Happy days."

"Happy days, Joe."

They began on the quiche. Joe put down his fork after the first bite.

"This is d.a.m.ned good!" Rhiannon nodded calmly.

"I love this," she said, reaching for Maxie's box. She opened it.

"It's an arrowhead from Vermont. My stepson, Max, found it." She weighed the arrowhead in her palm, as he had.

"Max made the box. He was in New Zealand . . . It's a special wood from there. Kauri, it's called." Rhiannon placed the arrowhead back in its oval and turned the box around, looking at it from each side. Joe pointed at the picture of Stone Man. "He did that, too." Rhiannon leaned over the table and looked closely at the photograph. Her eyes opened wider.

"Awesome."

"He balances there and watches over the valley. His hands are weights.

'Stone Man,' Maxie calls him."

"Looks like New England."

"Yup, Vermont. Londonderry."

"I know where Londonderry is," she said. "My father took us skiing there."

"Good old Maxie. Max Mueller, you should look him up when you go back east."

"I will," she said.

"When are you going?"

"A week from tomorrow."

"Oh."

"Yes, I've had the ticket for two months." He poured them more wine.

Rhiannon leaned back in the plastic chair, looked at the painting over the table, and then studied the drawing above the bookshelf.

"My father did those," Joe said. "He did the painting last year, not long before he died. The drawing is of my mother. She wasn't much older than you are."

"She was beautiful," Rhiannon said.

"Not as beautiful as you," Joe said factually.

"I could do that," she said, pointing at the drawing. She indicated the oil. "But I couldn't do that."

"Color ups the ante," Joe said.

"Awesome," she said, still looking at the oil.

"Takes time," Joe said. "There's about fifty years practice between the two."

"And then gone, all that experience gone," Rhiannon said.

"Gotta do it while we can," Joe said. "G.o.d, what a good dinner. I hate to see you go, Rhiannon."

"Don't you get lonely?" she asked. An appealing smile spread across her face. Joe imagined her clothes dropping away, saw her naked, her clean tight skin, touches of private color at her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, the subtle curve where she would swell with pregnancy. He shook his head, more to clear it than to say no.

"Batman," he said. "Batman keeps me company. Although I do worry about him sometimes. He's younger than I am."

"Joe--could I stay? For the week? Until my plane?" She spoke quietly and held him with her large dark eyes. He should have seen it coming, but he was surprised.

"Umm, with me?" She nodded. "Oh, Rhiannon."

"You think I'm too young," she said.

"No, that's not it. Rhiannon, you are not too young." He searched for words. "It's not you; it's me. I'm too old." He swallowed a mouthful of wine. "There was a time when I would have crawled around the island for you on my hands and knees. Let me see if I can explain."

She stood, turned once around, and sat down again. "You don't have to.

It's all right. And besides, you're wounded." She pointed at the Band-Aid on his cheek.

"I'm not that wounded. I'm changing. Did you ever see a chameleon change color?"

"No," she said.

"I had one on that branch, right out there." He pointed through the gla.s.s of the lanai door. "It was brown. Each time I looked, it was a little less brown and a little more green. You could barely see it change." Rhiannon looked impatient. "When it was completely green it jumped onto a leaf that was the same color." Joe paused. "It's writing I want to do now; I'm ready to jump. I'll probably kick myself for the rest of my life," he said, "but I'm calling a cab to take you home."

Rhiannon gathered her things. They rode the elevator down in silence, but as they waited for the cab she sighed and leaned against Joe. He put his arm around her. "You have to take love where you find it," she said. "My father told me that."

Joe squeezed her tighter. "Your father's right." The cabbie pulled in.

Joe gave him the address and double the fare. "Keep the change, huh."

"Thanks, Brah." Rhiannon rolled down the window and turned her face to him. She held his eyes until the cab turned out into the street.

Joe walked up the stairs, feeling heavier with each step. Rhiannon's scent lingered in the apartment. He didn't want to bother Batman with his troubles, so he put on _La Traviata_ and finished the Chianti. He felt terrible. He had denied love in order to protect himself and his precious writing. He was a selfish a.s.shole with one foot in the grave.

It was a good thing that he was out of wine.

In the morning, he returned to their cafe. If Rhiannon wanted, she could see him there without making a big deal about it. She did not appear. A week later, he arrived home in the afternoon to see a box by the door. He knew immediately that it was from her. He opened it and found an object wrapped in white tissue paper. He unwound the paper and found a doll. She was dressed in a kimono and had j.a.panese features, an eternal bittersweet look. She was gorgeous. A note read, "Her name is Sumoko. I made her for Batman. I'm leaving today. Love, Rhiannon." Joe took the doll and a Napoleon Bonaparte mystery out on the lanai.

"Batman, someone is here to meet you." He laid the book on the table and put Sumoko and Batman next to each other on their backs, with the book as a pillow, looking towards the mountain. We'll see what happens, he said to himself and to Rhiannon, who was probably at thirty thousand feet. What a sweetheart. He slid the lanai door closed and made himself sit at the computer and enter what he had written earlier. As he worked, he forgot about himself and Sumoko. He was pleasantly surprised, later, to see her with Batman. They seemed to be getting along.