The first half of August was little better. In the middle of the month we got several days of sullen rain. When the front finally left, the promise of autumn slid in behind it. The swamp maples started to turn crimson, the nights were cool, and the days grew perceptibly shorter. Winter was just around the corner. The inevitability of winter always ruined New England autumns for me. Charlie and I drove out to the Deerfield one Saturday to try the trout and found them uncooperative. Doc Adams and I trekked to the Farmington River in Connecticut on a Sunday. We each landed a couple of small ones and tried to convince each other that we’d had a good day. I talked with Gloria a few times. Joey had lucked into a job at a resort in Ogunquit. He’d be there through Labour Day. She seemed to miss him. I figured they had either resolved their conflicts or at least achieved a temporary truce. I spoke with Joey once. He called me Pop. Neither of us mentioned his moving in with me. The stock market dipped.
