hair?â
âWhy not? Even a nun likes to look half-decent. Unlike some people I know.â
âStop ragging on me. Give me the cut you think I should have.â
âBless you. This will be fun. You know, your hairâs not half-bad. I know you say itâs thin. But itâs not. Itâs fine. But thick. You have Helen Mirren hair.â
âOh, God. Sheâs decades older than I am.â
âBut still sexy. You should feel lucky that I even put you in the same category.â
âThe point being?â
âHelen Mirren is not gifted in the hair department. But she knows that she needs help, and she gets it. And the result is: she is Helen Mirren, sex goddess for the golden years.â
âYou win. Cut away.â
An hour later, I looked ready for our dinner at the Riverâs End. But would Toby notice?
âHow about a second Pimmâs Cup?â I proposed, in approval of Angieâs work.
âWe have a long night ahead,â Angie replied. âLetâs wait for Toby.â Upon which, he burst through the door.
âAngie, you look terrific. And what have you done to your sister?â
âYou like?â I ventured.
âYou bet,â he answered on cue.
And we were on for a happy evening. While we were freshening up, I gave Toby a quick rundown on my dayâs work in the library, but we agreed to leave all that aside for tonight and to enjoy our dinner out.
We left quickly, so that weâd have light for Angieâs first drive up the coast. We wanted to be seated at our table looking out at Goatâs Rock when the sun set. Thatâs the whole point of Riverâs End. Water, sunset, and a great meal. We werenât disappointed. On the drive up, Angie admired the views, as the road skirted one dramatic beach after anotherâthe long sandy sweep of Coleman Beach, with its surging white surf, then Arched Rock Beach, which always reminds me of Monetâs paintings at Etretat, then hidden coves that made the road veer in and out at sharp angles. Weâd had a good share of ocean drama by the time we reached Riverâs End, which in spite of the turbulence caused by the entrance of the Russian River to the sea, always breathes peace.
Before taking our table, we walked around the deck, watching the sky gather color for the sunset and pointing out the shoreline features to AngieâGoatâs Rock, the array of birds that nest there, and the sandbar where seals play with their pups. Weâd timed it right, just as the color wheel in the sky put on its full show. On this stretch of coast, late winter holds the most spectacular sunrises and sunsets. Thatâs the secret that year-round beach residents keep from the summer people. Angie and I reminisced about our youth, recalling the sunrises we used to watch from the sea wall behind Grammy Mollyâs beach house in Hull at the other end of the country, looking out at the Atlantic.
By then it was time to move inside. The entrance to the restaurant, which is done in rustic redwood décor, passes through a narrow space adjacent to the bar, and there, listing slightly on a stool, sat Tom Keogh. He was perched between two men I didnât recognize, sloshing a swizzle stick in a tall drink. His eyes were glassy when he looked up and saw us. âToby Sandler,â he said in a challenging tone. âI want my stuff back.â
Toby nodded hello, smiled, said nothing. Meanwhile a hostess approached with menus and led us to our table. Tom got up and followed us. He stood swaying next to the table as we were seated. âThat stuff is mine, and I want it back,â he repeated. The hostess shot him a disapproving glance, and several heads turned at the tables near us.
Toby replied in a calm but firm voice, âThis isnât the place to discuss it, Tom. I said weâd work something out. We will.â
Tom stood there for a moment looking confused. Toby said, âWeâd
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