“I was really glad to hear from you. I was going to call. I mean, I did — at that place you used to work. But they said you didn't have a phone at home. I'm glad you called. I didn't know if I'd ever hear from you again.”

No way was she going to say that she'd been stood up or — at least until he had a few drinks in him — that she needed some backing for her film and had he thought any more about the investment idea? So she just said, “I thought it might be fun to get some fresh air. I didn't mean to wheedle a trip to Fire Island. You have a place out there?”

They walked down the wharf to his car. "I wish. I'm in a summer share. A lot of the people from the firm go in together. When you said you wanted to get out of the city I thought about the Island.

“I've never been there. Why do they call it that, I wonder. Fire Island.”

Hathaway shrugged. “I'm not sure. I'll look it up and give you a call.”

Rune looked at the frown on his face as he memorized his task. Seemed like he still needed a little work at loosening up, according to mother's instructions.

They loaded their bags into the trunk and got into the car.

“Put your seat belt on,” he said.

“Yessir.”

He started the car and drove out onto the highway, heading south.

Rune didn't even have to bring up the topic. Before they'd gone a half mile Hathaway said, “I've run a lot of numbers on documentary films. They're kind of encouraging. It's not a gold mine. But it looks like there's money to be made. We'll go over the details if you want.”

“Well, sure.”

He signaled and checked his blind spot as he cautiously changed lanes.

In two hours they climbed off the ferry and trekked over the sandy sidewalks to his vacation house, halfway between Kismet and Ocean Beach on Fire Island. The place was a cheap assembly of sharp-angled gray wood and glass and yellow pine with polyurethane so thick the grain was distorted by the lens of the coats. When Warren finally got the door open — he had key trouble — Rune was disappointed. The windows were filthy. The grit of sand and salt was everywhere. The stench of Lysol and the sour scent of mold fought for supremacy.

A crummy house, a romantic beach — and an accountant...

Thanks tons, Sam.

But, hey, life could be worse. At least he was a rich accountant, almost ready to invest in her documentary film.

And besides, they had a fierce yellow sun and a case of Budweiser and potato chips and Cheez Whiz and Twinkies and the restless Atlantic Ocean.

Who needed anything but that?