reality.
* * *
On Monday, Orion drove to the airport to meet his partner, Casper Martin, and Finney Solomon, the financier.
The two had flown from New York to Boston and from there in a small plane to the Vineyard. Orion parked his car and strolled over to the gate, where he stood by the chain-link fence that separated people from airplanes, and waited for the Cape Air Cessna to arrive.
It was a little after twelve-thirty, a hot day. A breeze ruffled the grass on either side of the runway and flicked Orion’s ponytail around his face.
The plane landed, and the ground crew, one small, dark-haired woman, wheeled a stairway up to the plane. Two passengers disembarked, one after the other, stooping to get through the low door. The first, a man in his forties with carroty red hair, looked around expectantly, spotted Orion, and waved. He turned to the man behind him and said something Orion was too far away to hear. The second passenger, a freshly scrubbed–looking young man, followed him down the stairs and across the tarmac to where Orion stood by the gate, now open.
The ground crew, the same dark-haired woman, wheeled the stairway off to one side, the door shut, and the Cessna taxied away.
“Casper.” Orion stuck out his hand and the redhead grabbed it with his, clasping Orion’s shoulder with his other hand.
“Good to see you, Orion.” Casper let go and turned to the man with him. “Finney Solomon, meet Orion Nanopoulos.”
“How’re you doing?” The young man thrust out his hand and grinned, showing great white teeth. “Delighted to meet you, Orion.”
“Same here.” Orion shook hands and studied the man, who, in turn, was studying him with a half-smile. Finney Solomon was taller than Orion, six-one or -two, nice looking without being too much so. Light brown hair cut short, hazel eyes.
“I was shocked to hear about Angelo,” said Finney Solomon. “A good friend. Great guy. His wife and kids are devastated. Any word on what happened?”
“Not many clues,” said Orion. “Shot in the back of his head, left in the trench in pouring rain. Just a fluke they found his body before they filled in the trench.”
“A real loss.” Finney shook his head. He looked athletic, a swimmer or a runner or a bicyclist. Something like that. The guy oozed so much trustworthiness, Orion felt uncomfortable.
“We have a lot to talk about,” said Orion.
“We sure do,” said Finney. “Is there someplace we can talk in private?”
“My office. Do you have any luggage?”
“Just our briefcases and carry-ons,” said Casper. “The pilot loaded them into a wing compartment.”
“Yeah, that’s how it works,” said Orion. “The pilots are baggage handlers.”
“At the check-in counter they asked how much we weigh,” said Finney. “Gives you kind of an odd feeling.”
“They do that, too,” said Orion.
“There was a woman going on to Nantucket, you could tell she was deciding whether she could subtract a few pounds and still get there safely.” Finney laughed.
“Have you been to the Vineyard before?” asked Orion.
“Couple of times, briefly. I took a sightseeing bus tour once. Saw what you could see in three hours. I’ve been hoping to come back and get to really know the Island.”
Orion, who by this time had been on the Vineyard for three months, had walked its roads every day of those three months, and knew he’d seen only a minuscule portion.
The two men picked up their briefcases from the luggage cart and walked with Orion to his station wagon.
“You sit up front, Finney,” said Casper. “Better view, and I’ve seen it before.”
“I just can’t get over Angelo’s death,” said Finney. “Things won’t be the same without him.”
On their way to his office, Orion pointed out to Finney the sights he thought might interest him. The state forest with its stark, silvery snags, the failed venture of a planned forest product, where a rare and hungry fungus growing north
* * *
On Monday, Orion drove to the airport to meet his partner, Casper Martin, and Finney Solomon, the financier.
The two had flown from New York to Boston and from there in a small plane to the Vineyard. Orion parked his car and strolled over to the gate, where he stood by the chain-link fence that separated people from airplanes, and waited for the Cape Air Cessna to arrive.
It was a little after twelve-thirty, a hot day. A breeze ruffled the grass on either side of the runway and flicked Orion’s ponytail around his face.
The plane landed, and the ground crew, one small, dark-haired woman, wheeled a stairway up to the plane. Two passengers disembarked, one after the other, stooping to get through the low door. The first, a man in his forties with carroty red hair, looked around expectantly, spotted Orion, and waved. He turned to the man behind him and said something Orion was too far away to hear. The second passenger, a freshly scrubbed–looking young man, followed him down the stairs and across the tarmac to where Orion stood by the gate, now open.
The ground crew, the same dark-haired woman, wheeled the stairway off to one side, the door shut, and the Cessna taxied away.
“Casper.” Orion stuck out his hand and the redhead grabbed it with his, clasping Orion’s shoulder with his other hand.
“Good to see you, Orion.” Casper let go and turned to the man with him. “Finney Solomon, meet Orion Nanopoulos.”
“How’re you doing?” The young man thrust out his hand and grinned, showing great white teeth. “Delighted to meet you, Orion.”
“Same here.” Orion shook hands and studied the man, who, in turn, was studying him with a half-smile. Finney Solomon was taller than Orion, six-one or -two, nice looking without being too much so. Light brown hair cut short, hazel eyes.
“I was shocked to hear about Angelo,” said Finney Solomon. “A good friend. Great guy. His wife and kids are devastated. Any word on what happened?”
“Not many clues,” said Orion. “Shot in the back of his head, left in the trench in pouring rain. Just a fluke they found his body before they filled in the trench.”
“A real loss.” Finney shook his head. He looked athletic, a swimmer or a runner or a bicyclist. Something like that. The guy oozed so much trustworthiness, Orion felt uncomfortable.
“We have a lot to talk about,” said Orion.
“We sure do,” said Finney. “Is there someplace we can talk in private?”
“My office. Do you have any luggage?”
“Just our briefcases and carry-ons,” said Casper. “The pilot loaded them into a wing compartment.”
“Yeah, that’s how it works,” said Orion. “The pilots are baggage handlers.”
“At the check-in counter they asked how much we weigh,” said Finney. “Gives you kind of an odd feeling.”
“They do that, too,” said Orion.
“There was a woman going on to Nantucket, you could tell she was deciding whether she could subtract a few pounds and still get there safely.” Finney laughed.
“Have you been to the Vineyard before?” asked Orion.
“Couple of times, briefly. I took a sightseeing bus tour once. Saw what you could see in three hours. I’ve been hoping to come back and get to really know the Island.”
Orion, who by this time had been on the Vineyard for three months, had walked its roads every day of those three months, and knew he’d seen only a minuscule portion.
The two men picked up their briefcases from the luggage cart and walked with Orion to his station wagon.
“You sit up front, Finney,” said Casper. “Better view, and I’ve seen it before.”
“I just can’t get over Angelo’s death,” said Finney. “Things won’t be the same without him.”
On their way to his office, Orion pointed out to Finney the sights he thought might interest him. The state forest with its stark, silvery snags, the failed venture of a planned forest product, where a rare and hungry fungus growing north
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