Andy handed up the wheelchair and both men opened it then placed the seat cushion. A pleasant surprise. They helped Andy lift Mitchell out of the launch and lowered him onto the chair.

"Your’s is only the second wheelchair to use this dock," their tall benefactor said.

"All things being cosmic." Mitchell set his feet and legs and made himself comfortable. "Thanks for helping us out."

"Glad to."

The helmsman stepped down into the launch. "I’m off," he said, and the man who hadn’t spoken simply waved a hand and walked up the ramp toward the club.

"My name is Jack Muldoon." He extended his hand to Mitchell.

"Mitchell Burns." He planted his fist in Jack’s palm. "An Irishman, hey? I had you pegged for Pawnee Bill on the banks of the Piscataqua."

"Actually my grandparents were the immigrants," Jack smiled. "I grew up in Manhattan. My wife and I moved here six years ago."

"This is Andy," Mitchell said. "From your old neighborhood. He moved too, farther north along the Hudson on the path of higher education. He’s a school teacher."

"Ah," Jack raised his eyebrows and nodded approval. "Where abouts?"

"Vermont," Andy said.

Mitchell waited for Andy to pick up the conversation. Jack was waiting. Nothing.

Jesus Christ, Mitchell thought. Sometimes it’s almost scary.

"Well. Let me show you what we have here," Jack said, finally. He took the seabag and walked ahead while Andy helped Mitchell push up the short steep ramp onto a grey veranda surrounding an immaculate old two-story New England house. Sunlight shone on a fresh coat of white paint.

"This is the club, of course." Jack turned to look from the fragrant shade on the porch out at the river. "It certainly is a beauty, your boat." Headed into the current the sloop’s curves swept powerfully from stem to stern. The decks and hull shined like white light. "You fellows have that hull looking like new. Hinckley, isn’t it?"

"A ‘71," Mitchell said. "Very good year."

Jack showed them to the front of the house. "Can I get you something to drink?"

Mitchell sighed at the thought. "A lemonade would hit the spot."

"No thanks," Andy said.

Jack opened the gate of a tall white picket fence and they moved onto a driveway of crushed stone that looped away on both sides of a beautifully groomed lawn in the shade of ancient maple trees, the gnarled trunks were ringed with beds of yellow and purple and pink and red flowers. The front of the club-house was a thicket of trestled pink roses, blue delphiniums and black-eyed Susans. Red geraniums in second-story window boxes billowed above indigo petunias and hanging vinca vines. Mitchell was astonished by the beauty. Jack gave them a moment to appreciate it. Then he said, "Do you mind if I ask where your headed?"

"I’m off to find the bus station," Mitchell said, unconcerned with anything more than the warmth and the fragrance. "Andy is staying in Portsmouth."

"The bus station is out of town. I’ll drive you," Jack said and held up a finger. "Just give me a minute." He walked to the front steps and up into the house.