salmon. Jackson's parents showed up. Joe was
happy to see two more people over fifty.

"Hi, I'm Joe, father of the bride," he said extending his hand.

"I'm Gunnar. This is Bonnie." Gunnar Arendal was wide shouldered, a few
inches shorter than Joe. He had a high forehead, blue eyes, a strong
nose, and a trim blonde mustache. His hair was swept back, gray at the
temples. Bonnie was spare, compact, and deeply tanned. Her hair was
dark and short. Fine lines crisscrossed her face. A handsome builder
and a power elf.

"Jackson tells me you're a builder, down in the bay area."

"Yes."

"I did a little of that when I was a kid. I couldn't pick up a bundle
of shingles now."

"They aren't getting any lighter," Gunnar said mildly.

"What do you do?" Bonnie asked.

"Used to program computers. Gave it up. Now I'm learning how to write."

"Oh, what kind of writing?"

"Stories."

"Bonnie couldn't live without her mysteries," Gunnar said.

"It's true," she said.

"Hi, Dad, Mom. You've met Joe." Jackson put an arm around each of them.

"Hello, dear," Bonnie said.

"The food is mostly out," Jackson said. "Beer, wine, hard stuff--help
yourselves.

Joe could see where Jackson got his energy and talent. People make more
sense when you've met their parents. Jackson and Kate would have
problems, Joe thought. Who doesn't? But they were a good match and off
to a fine start. What more could a parent ask?

He staked out a position by the keg and had a sociable time. He kept
expecting to see Ingrid, but she didn't appear. Finally, a couple of
hours after dark, he hitched a ride into town and went to bed. He slept
restlessly and dreamed that a group of beautiful young people were
enjoying themselves on a lawn. He was watching through thick glass; he
couldn't hear them.

12

Joe slept late at the Friday Harbor Inn. He walked down the hill and
ate pancakes in the midst of an argument about a town construction
project. Money. Politics. It was comfortably familiar. He went back to
bed and didn't wake up until noon.

His new clothes had survived nicely, folded at the bottom of the Filson
bag. The shirt was in its original box. He removed the pins, dressed,
and tied his tie several times before he got it right. He took a bus to
the county park. The bus sped through shady woods, up and down hills,
and past horses grazing in uneven fields. It stopped at a resort by a
narrow harbor choked with pleasure boats. Three women