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taking off in two days and promising to put the paperwork in motion before he left town.
    Unfortunately he was not as efficient in his personal life; Jana never received the card he’d promised. The adventurous part of her hoped to hear from him, while the workaholic was relieved. Just when she’d concluded that his interest was purely professional, Ed called her at home—he obviously still had her number, although he claimed he’d lost his address book (his excuse for not writing).
    His trip had gone smoothly, he told her. It was too early for the tourists, so the rooms were cheaper, and the vacation itself was restful. He talked about Maine’s ragged coastline, claiming he’d never seen anything like it: driving along Route 1, one minute you’re following the beach, the next minute you’re ten miles inland. He told her about side trips he’d made to various islands. “One night I stayed on an island whose only structure was an old stone mansion converted into a rooming house. You could walk across a thin wooden bridge to another island that was all rocky, deserted beach. I woke up the next morning and could have sworn I saw haystacks out the window. Turned out it was seaweed, gold and still wet, left on the rocks at high tide.”
    â€œPopping seaweed was one of the few aspects of the beach I enjoyed when I was growing up,” Jana said. “It was never piled up like haystacks, though, just strands scattered about. I used to think they resembled branches, and before I popped them I spread them out on the sand in different gnarled tree-trunk patterns.”
    â€œYou would have enjoyed hunting for driftwood along the Maine coast, then. The pieces were beautifully shaped, washed smooth by the waves. I brought home one piece that I swore at first was the bone of a rat or some other small animal. You’ll have to see it.”
    â€œJersey beaches never had much in the way of driftwood. Plenty of shells, though. Most of them were broken, but even the broken shapes made fascinating patterns. I could have stared at those shells for hours.”
    â€œWere you one of those kids who painted clam shells and sold them as ash trays?” Ed asked jokingly.
    â€œNot on your life. I never wanted to interfere with their natural iridescence.”
    â€œThat’s how I feel about coral. When I was a kid, we used to go to Miami every Christmas to visit my grandparents, and I remember being enchanted by the pieces of coral along the beach.”
    â€œUnfortunately Lakewood didn’t have much in the way of coral, either. But I’ve seen its beauty. I have friends who went to Florida especially to collect coral to use for their bathroom floor.”
    â€œWhat a great idea. It sounds gorgeous.” Then, changing the subject a bit, he asked how her three weeks had been.
    She told him they’d been hectic. “I’m going up to Yaddo a week from Friday, and I’m trying to get a thousand things done before I leave.”
    â€œYou’re going where?”
    â€œYaddo. It’s an artists’ retreat in Saratoga Springs. An invitation is considered an honor, and this is the third time they’ve invited me.” She didn’t bother mentioning that she’d been rejected the first two times she applied, and how devastated she’d been. That had been back in the early seventies, when she didn’t need the time for uninterrupted work as much as she wanted the connections to be made at colonies such as Yaddo or MacDowell. Despite recommendations, Yaddo rejected her twice, MacDowell three times. She might have wanted time out of the city, but she was too proud to apply to the less prestigious colonies such as Cummington or Virginia Center for the Creative Arts. All or nothing, no compromises—that’s the way she’d always been, but only in the past five or six years had it paid off for her.
    â€œI didn’t realize you were leaving