helped him once in a similar way. How strange, he thought. And how
right.

"I've been brave," she said.

"I'll bet you have." Her hand moved down his stomach, almost as an
afterthought. She urged him over on top of her and guided him into her.
They lay complete. Sometime later, out of no particular necessity, he
began to move slowly in and out. It was better than talking.
Reassuring. I am right here, he was saying. I love you. He went on and
on.

"Oh," she cried. "Oh . . . Oh . . . Oh . . . " Her head fell back on
the pillow. "Oh . . . " And then, "Joe?" She put her hands on his
buttocks and pulled him deeper into her. "Joe?" He gave in. Near the
top of the wave that picked him up, he put his mouth on her open mouth
and felt her calling, drawing him over. He poured into her, tumbling,
giving her everything.

"My hero," Daisy said. She was leaning on one elbow and looking into
his face. It was morning.

"Nah . . . " Joe said.

"I thought I'd forgotten how."

"No way," he said, waking up. "Don't you look great! You look like a
little girl."

"I've got a favor to ask," she said. "I want to remember you like this.
I can get myself to the airport."

"Uh--when will I see you again?" Joe asked.

"I'm going home through France," she said. "You know, I have a studio
on the property in Woodstock."

"Woodstock," Joe groaned. "Maybe you'd like to spend some of the winter
out here?" They were too experienced to let the future spoil the
moment. They smooched. Joe took a shower. He dressed, and they talked
for a few minutes before he hugged her.

"Goodbye, beautiful," he said.

"Goodbye, Launcelot, Lochinvar . . . " He started toward the door and
turned back a step toward her.

"Strider," he said.

"Strider," she drawled, smiling. They let go of each other with the
total release that binds across any space or time.

Joe walked along Kalakaua Avenue. It was still early; most of the
tourists were in bed or eating breakfast. Daisy. How unexpected! How
great! He wasn't going to live in her studio. She had her life, and he
had his, now. But he would see her again, he was pretty sure of that.
What was between them was real and had remained this long; it wasn't
going to go away. He sang "Scarlet Ribbons" several times and was good
and hungry by the time he reached the shopping center.

Portuguese sausage. Coffee. Ah. The waitress, fiftyish, smiled at him
as though she understood perfectly where he had just been. Lif