"See that chick in the white shorts? She's got the nicest legs we've seen all day."
Just then the leggy beauty—Sheila Beckwith— turned and smiled at them. Had she heard Bob? He hoped so.
By midaftemoon, they were at MacMillan Wharf, where they all ate quahogs.
"We say it ko-hogs," Paula told the visitor, who was having difiBculty pronouncing the name of the clams he was eating.
Bob then bought everybody soft ice cream, and they strolled out on the pier to watch the fishermen unload the day's catch. For Jean-Claude this was the best part of the day. But something puzzled him.
"Are they speaking Spanish?" he inquired.
"Portuguese," said Sheila. "Most of the fishermen here came from Portugal."
When they had walked back to the car and were climbing in, Jean-Claude remarked, "I like this place. It reminds me of my home."
Minutes later, they were cruising along the ocean on Route 6A. Bob was pleased. The excursion had been a success. Not only were the kids elated, but even Sheila seemed to have enjoyed herself. He glanced at his watch. It was nearly five o'clock.
"Hey, guys," he said, "Fve got a great idea."
"What?" asked Paula, always eager to expand her horizons.
"Well, I promised to meet Uncle Bernie at the track about now. Why don't we all go?"
"Negative," was Jessie's immediate and dour reply. "I don't need to jog away my menopause just yet."
Bob sighed. Why do I even try with her? he thought.
He then addressed his ally. "Want to come, Paula?"
"Gee, Dad, Fm kinda tired. Maybe tomorrow."
Two strikes. Somewhat timidly, he asked his wife. "Sheila?"
"I don't think so. Bob," she said gently, "but we could drop you off at the track and Bernie could give you a lift home."
"Okay," he said, now resigned to the loneliness of the long-distance jogger. They drove for several miles without further conversation. Then Jean-Claude spoke.
"May I come, please?" he asked.
Bob was delighted. "You mean you'd like to run?"
''No/' the boy replied, ''but I would like to watch you.
Bernie was warming up, his eyes constantly on the infield, where Davey was once again outclassing the high school soccer stars. Then he noticed his friend appear in the distance.
"Ho, Beckwith!'' he call without interrupting his jumping jacks. "Ho—uh—kid!"
Not that Bernie had a feeble memory. He could quote every major league batting average since the game began. But the sight of Bob's . . . problem actually walking toward him rendered him momentarily speechless. He was, to put it simply, freaked out.
"Hiya, Bern."
"Hello, Mr. Ackerman," said Jean-Claude.
"Hi. Uh—how's it hanging, kid? You gonna run with us?"
"No, I will just wait for Bob."
^'Sports are really crucial for growing boys," stated Bernie, and then turned to indicate the action on the field. "Lookit Davey. He's gonna grow up to be a regular Tarzan."
"Maybe Jean-Claude doesn't want to swing from trees," Bob interposed. "C'mon, Bern, let's get on the road."
"Okay. See ya—uh—Jean-Claude."
The men chugged off. The boy walked to the stands, climbed to the fourth tier, where he had a good view of the entire track, and sat down.
"So, Beckwith?" whispered Bernie as soon as they were on the curve.
"So what?"
"So when's he leaving?"
"I told you, Bern. Sheila agreed to a month's visit."
"Okay, okay. Just remember, I warned you that what a wife thinks and what she says don't always match."
"Lef s just run, huh?"
Bob picked up the pace, hoping to tire his partner into silence.
"That reminds me," Bemie puffed. "You know what youVe told me \s buried in the Fort Knox of my brain. The whole Gestapo couldn't get it out of me. But—"
"But what?"
"Fd really like to tell Nance. I mean, husbands and wives shouldn't have secrets from each other."
Bob did not respond.
"Beckwith, I swear, Nancy's the soul of honor. The epitome of discretion. Besides, she'll notice I'm holding out on her. I mean, God knows what she'll think it is."
"She'd never guess," Bob said wryly.
"That's just the point. Please, Beckwith, Nance'll be discreet. I swear on my clients' lives."
The pressure was too great.
"Okay, Bern," he sighed, "but not too many details, huh?"
"Don't sweat. Just the essential wild fact—if you know what I mean."
"Yeah. When'll you tell her?"
Three strides later, Bemie answered sheepishly, "Last night."
The high school soccer studs began to disband, bidding farewell to Davey Ackerman. Since yesterday he'd practiced kicking goals, today he'd do a little work on dribbling. And so he began to trot around the perimeter of the field, nudging the ball before him with alternating feet.