y, really--all she
had to do was sign the form and forget about it.

The idea made him feel good. He filled out the form with everything but
her signature, her mother's maiden name, and her social security
number. He called Myron to check about joint ownership. Either owner
could control the account, but he would be the primary owner,
responsible for taxes. Monthly statements could be sent to each owner.
"No need for that," he told Myron, "just one would be enough." They set
a time to meet on the following Monday. Oliver was assuming that he
would see Francesca Sunday morning on the beach.

On Saturday night, the weather forecast was for light rain and fog.
Oliver could barely see the bridge when he woke up. He made a pot of
coffee, drank one cup, and saved the rest in a large thermos which he
put in his shoulder bag along with two mugs, half a quart of milk, and
a manila envelope containing the account application. Forty minutes
later, he was sitting on a driftwood log near the spot at the beginning
of the beach where he had last met Francesca and where The Early People
had waited for the sun.

It was warm for November. The tide was out. The water was gray,
stippled and flattened by light rain. The air was fertile and salty.
Mist blurred the rocks. A dog barked somewhere beyond the other end of
the beach. Francesca appeared suddenly, holding a black umbrella over
her head. When Oliver could see her smile, he stood and smiled back.

"You made it," she said coming closer.

"Quite a trip," he said. He wanted to hug her, but jackets and hats and
her umbrella made it awkward. "How about some coffee?"

"Coffee? Superb!"

Oliver sat down on the log and poured them each a mug. "Milk?"

"Mmm."

"Say when . . ."

"When."

He handed her the mug. She sat beside him and shifted the umbrella to
partially cover him. "I love my valentine."

"Good. My friend, George, is an artist. He showed me how to cast it.
What did you do with it? Not that it's any of my business."

"Hid it." Francesca giggled. "Where did you get the box?"

"Made it."

"I wondered," she said. "It's beautiful. Did you find your father?"

"I did." He told her about Hawaii and meeting his father at The Devil's
Churn in Oregon.

"Dramatic," she said. Her eyes were soft.

"It was. It was the way he wanted it."

"Did you feel that he was your father?"

"Yes. We're different. I'm American, and he's Japanese-American, more
Japanese--he lives in J