The Color of Heaven by The Colour of Heaven (html)

Author:The Colour of Heaven (html) [Heaven, The Colour of]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2012-07-31T00:52:52+00:00

Chapter Thirty-three

“It’s a nice campus,” Matt said.

We stopped at an intersection. The rain pounded on the roof of the car, while the wipers squeaked intermittently across the glass.

“How long wil you be visiting your brother?” I asked.

My gaze was transfixed by Matt’s hands on the wheel. They were thick, strong, cal used hands – the hands of a builder – and yet I remembered so

clearly how they had once held a pen…

“Not very long,” he replied.

I turned toward him. “How long?”

“A week or so. Gordon bought a boat a couple of years ago, and he’s letting me take it out before he brings it in for the winter.”

“He has a boat? What kind?”

“A sloop. Thirty-six feet. It’s at Marblehead.”

I tipped my head back on the seat. “That sounds great. I haven’t been sailing since high school. Can you believe that?”

He looked at me with surprise. “Why not?”

“Dad got rid of the boat last year. He wants a new one. So you’re on vacation just for this week?” I asked.

“Yeah. My boss is real y good. He gives me time off whenever I need it. I don’t get paid for it though.”

“You can pul over right here.” I pointed toward an empty parking spot on the main street.

Soon we were out of the car and splashing through puddles again, ducking through the rain, hurrying into the pub.

The door swung shut behind us. Inside, it was warm and dry and smel ed like stale beer.

It was quiet for a Saturday. There were only a few people in the circular booths along the side wal . One older man sat alone at the bar hugging a

tumbler of whisky in both hands. The bartender was fil ing two glasses of beer at the taps.

I removed my coat and fol owed Matt to the back, where we slid into a booth. The waitress came by and took our orders. As soon as she was gone,

we sat forward and folded our arms on the table.

“It’s so good to see you,” I said.

“You, too.”

“Are you stil writing?” I had been waiting until now to ask.

He casual y shrugged. “Here and there. I sold a short story to a magazine a couple of years ago.”

“No kidding. That’s great. Was it a story I would know?”

A stupid question. I hadn’t read anything of his in years. It was probably something he’d written after he’d left home.

“No,” he replied. “I don’t know where al those old stories are. In a box somewhere I suppose, unless my dad burned them. Anyway, I was just a kid

then. I can’t imagine they were any good.”

“I thought they were. So you wrote this story in Chicago?”

He nodded.

“I’d love to read it sometime. Do you have any copies of the magazine?”

“A couple.”

“Wil you send one to me?”

“Sure.”

“Promise me,” I firmly said.

“I promise.”

Our beers arrived, and we clinked glasses.

“To old friends,” I said.

“Old friends.”

We both took generous sips, and I discreetly wiped the foam from my upper lip.

“Have you written anything else lately?” I asked.

He set down his glass.

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