Morgan's father, an historian, once told Joe that habits are a writer's best friends. Joe stuck to his practice of writing all morning in coffee shops and then walking home and entering the words into his computer. By mid-afternoon he had a clean printout ready for the next day. He exercised and spent quiet evenings reading, watching the news, and thinking about the next day's work. He stopped going to the cafe where he had met Rhiannon.

A month went by, and he made progress. He was feeling good when he happened to meet Mo one day at the shopping center. He asked if she wanted to have lunch. She consulted her little red book and turned over a page. "A week from Friday?"

"Too long. I can't live without you. How about a drink--under the boardwalk?" he said, bursting into song. "Under the banyan tree?"

She sighed and gave in. "Tomorrow?" she offered. "Five o'clock? A little after?"

"Good deal."

Joe arrived early and had a congenial visit with Gilbert. It was September and the beach was uncrowded. Joe felt, as much as a haole can, that it was his island, that he had a right to be there.

Mo showed up and ordered a Lillet on the rocks, happy to have closed shop for the day. "Slow, but promising," she said of her business. He complimented her on the Jade Willow Lady picture. "I was lucky," she said. "It took some darkroom work to get it right, but I was lucky with the shot. I only took four; I was so afraid of disturbing her. I gave her a print. She was surprised, pleased, I think."

"I'd love to have one. I'd put it up in my apartment and be reminded to eat out once in awhile."

"Of course," Mo said. "You named her. Do you need reminding to eat out?"

"Homey Joe," he said. "I'm working my a.s.s off."

"I loved your story, by the way," she said. "I could see that balding bus boy carefully loading his cart. But I wanted more."

"Yeah," Joe said. "I can't tell you how many times I've thought of that guy. Did I tell you that I started a novel?"

"No," Mo said.

"You're right about the stories. They aren't enough. It's a new experience for me--a novel. It's taking everything I've got."

Mo nodded and clapped slowly. "Juggling," she said.

"Huh?"

"I was remembering a story Jung told about a juggler who was feeling bad because he had nothing to offer the Virgin Mary at a festival. He asked the village priest what to do. The priest told him that he must juggle for the Blessed Virgin. So he did and was filled with grace."

It was Joe's turn to clap.

"My nephew actually does juggle," Mo said. "I want to dress him in a red and yellow medieval costume and take pictures. He uses long sticks.

They extend his arms and make him seem more like a dancer than a juggler. So fluid and precise at the same time . . . "

"All you need is the costume," Joe said.

"And my nephew. He's going to school in North Carolina." She drank and smiled to herself. "You've changed," she said. "You look calmer. What happened to PrettyLocks? I can't remember her name."

"Rhiannon. She went back east to see her father." He changed the subject. "Speaking of fathers, how is yours?"

"Rolling along," she said. "We're going to get together at my sister's over the holidays."

"I'm planning to visit Kate," Joe said. "Maybe we should get together at the Caffe Ladro . . . " Mo smiled noncommittally, and they parted on a friendly note. She hadn't said anything about Rob Wilc.o.x and he hadn't asked. He and Mo were going to connect with work and art, it seemed. The personal, or the intimate, would stay in the background.

Nothing wrong with that, Joe said to himself as he walked home.

Several days later the phone rang. Joe picked it up on the second ring.

"Hi, Joe."

"Max! Hey, how are you?"

"Good. The reason I'm calling is: I got a call last week from a woman asking if she could come see Stone Man."

"Rhiannon," Joe said.

"Yeah, Rhiannon. She said that she saw the picture of Stone Man at your place."

"So, what happened?" Joe asked.

"She showed up. She was great. She made a drawing of Stone Man and hung out for awhile." Joe heard familiar music in the background.

"What's the music?"

"Chesapeake Bay sea chanteys--the ca.s.sette was in your truck."

"Ha, ha. That's what I thought. The banjo player is an old friend of mine. I listened to that tape all across the country. There's a song on there about how you're counted a lucky drudger if you ever get your pay." He sang the words.

"Right," Max said.

"So, did you like her? Rhiannon?"

"Yeah. She said she'd come back in two weeks and cook me a decent meal if I wanted. She was critical of the kitchen--like a little countess or something."

Joe laughed. "Her father's a chef, I guess. You lucky drudger! You remember my maxim about what to do when you're really attracted to a woman?"

"Tell her," Max said, and added, "where's my quarter?"

"I'll invest it for you. She's the real thing, Max." Joe paused. "When you see her, tell her Sumoko and Batman are spending a lot of time together."

"Cool," Max said. "Who's Sumoko?"

"She'll explain." Good old Max. Maybe he and Rhiannon would get together. Impossible to predict, Joe thought, but he could keep his fingers crossed.

20

A month after Maxie's call, two years after he had left Portland, Joe made coffee and read the beginning of his novel. He squared the pages and leaned back. It was the best he could do--given what he knew about the story so far. When he finished the first draft, he would start over and add things to better frame the questions that the story answered, and he would take things out that didn't matter. The phone rang.

"Joe?" The voice was husky, like Isabelle's, but it turned up at the corners and had Texas in it.

"Daisy?"