It was fun to start over in this way, owning only what he needed for his new life, whatever that was going to be. After some consideration, he bought a compact sound system and a TV for news and sports. He ate rice and fish, bought vegetables at the farmers market, and walked on the beach. The beach belongs to the people in Hawaii; it cannot be owned or sealed off. He bought a few aloha shirts and spent days at the university, the main library downtown, the shopping center, and occasionally, Waikiki. In a month he had a tan, and his pidgin had come back. Kate had learned to talk on the island; she spoke pidgin from deep down. Joe's pidgin was only half way there. If the locals are in doubt, they will ask anything in order to hear you speak--in a few words they know how long you've been around. Joe didn't mind the test. Usually he got points for trying. Kate wanted him to visit during the holidays, but he decided against it. He was just getting used to the island and he didn't feel like traveling. The day after Christmas, he was at the Moana leaning back with a beer and thinking about Sperandeo's book on stock trading when someone asked, "Caffe Ladro?" The woman he'd seen in Seattle was standing a few feet away, looking at his T-shirt. "Ah, Moira." he said, standing up. She was trying to place him. "Winifred," she said. "I saw you in The Elliot Bay Book Company," he said. "Last month. Moira was a guess." "Oh, yes . . . something funny . . . you had a projection." "Very funny," Joe said. "Winifred, my name is Joe, Joe Burke. Why not come sit? Talk story . . . " "I've given up on men," she said to someone listening in the banyan. "Very sensible," Joe said. She hesitated and sat. "I love this tree," she said, placing her sun glasses on the table between them. "Didn't someone write about it? Or under it?" he offered. "Stevenson," she said. "Or was it Mark Twain?" Her eyes were intensely brown with radiating streaks of garnet. "It's a literary banyan," Joe said. "So, what brings you to Hawaii?" "I used to live here," Joe said. "I stopped computer programming, and I stopped being married--again. It seemed natural to come back." "Hawaii gets to you," she said. Winifred lived in Manoa. She was a photographer. Joe would have bet that she was some kind of artist; he found them wherever he went. Her sister lived on Queen Anne Hill in Seattle, close to Kate and the Caffe Ladro. Her father, Arthur Soule, was a professor, retired in Vermont. "Lot of Soules on the Maine coast," Joe said. "And a Coffin clan. The line is: 'For every Soule, there's a Coffin."' "So my father has told me." "Win, Winifred . . . what do you prefer to be called?" "Either works. 'Winny' is what horses do. My father sometimes calls me Freddy." "How about Mo?" "No one calls me Mo."