ward
him, following the man who was with her. Francesca, yes. The man was
tall and blonde with a wide forehead and a long triangular face. He had
an easy vain expression, as though he had a full day ahead of being
admired. Francesca's head was down. She walked carefully. As they
passed, her eyes met Oliver's and he realized that she had already
recognized him, had known that he was there. Her face was resigned with
traces of humor around the edges. He was struck by her calm, so much
like his. They shared a moment of this calm--the briefest of
moments--but it felt as though it expanded infinitely outward around
them. Did she raise her eyebrows? He thought he saw her flush, but she
was past him before he could be sure. He remembered the bronze heart,
and warmth stirred in him. When he got home, he put it in his pocket
and rubbed his thumb over the O, the plus sign, and the F.

By Saturday, he had programmed a prototype design for the mailing list.
In the early days of programming, every detail had to be laid out on
paper before you sat in front of a computer. It was too slow and
expensive to rework code. Now, you could make changes easily. It was
more efficient to show a customer a quick design that could be used as
a starting point for discussion and improvement.

He tossed a canvas shoulder bag containing notes and diskettes into the
Jeep. Verdi took up a position behind the bare forsythia bushes. "Go
get 'em," Oliver said. His house was on the south side of the hill
overlooking the harbor. The first crocuses were popping up, several
days ahead of the ones at the Conservancy. He was early; no one was
there.

Ten minutes later, Jacky drove up. She got out of a red Toyota truck
and waved one hand. "I've got the key," she said. "Did you get anything
done?"

"Yeah, a start," Oliver said. He installed the software while she made
a pot of coffee.

"Coffee's on," she said, carrying a cup for herself. "Mugs are in the
cupboard above the sink." Oliver decided against a joke about a woman's
role in the office. He walked down the hall and poured his own. He
looked at his hiking boots, light colored jeans, and dark plaid shirt.
It was Saturday, for God sake. Every day was Saturday for Oliver as far
as clothes were concerned. What difference did it make? Jacky was
wearing tan jeans and a denim jacket, open over a mahogany colored
jersey. She was a big woman. His eyes were at the level of her
collarbone. Her jacket would swing