“‘Sunday afternoon is reserved for unwinding, greeting old friends, hoisting a few, and similar intellectual pursuits. In the evening, please plan on being the guests of the museum for an open house and reception. On Monday we roll up our sleeves and get down to business with our first working session. Spouses/lovers/friends/whatever can soak up some rays around the pool, or play tennis, Ping-Pong, or basketball, or go horseback riding or hiking-or, if desperate enough, can always sit in on our sessions.

“‘An extra treat this year will be a chuck-wagon breakfast to break up things at midweek. On Thursday morning we’ll have a three-mile group horseback ride to a rustic picnic spot where the works-bacon, eggs, coffee, and so forth-will be waiting for us, compliments of the lodge.’”

Julie sipped her wine pensively. “I’ll admit, it sounds like fun.”

“Of course it does,” he said, heartened. “And don’t a few days in central Oregon sound good? Blue skies, warm sun, dry air-”

“Not really, thanks.”

Naturally not. Raised in the Pacific Northwest, she thrived on the cool mists and lush, wet green of the Olympic Peninsula. So, amazingly enough, did Gideon, a native Southern Californian. All the same, by the time May arrived-after half a year of dark days and endless, drifting gray rain, with two more months of it yet to come-he was ready to bargain away his soul for a few days of hot, flat, cloudless sunshine. It was hard to remember that anyone could feel otherwise.

Glass of wine in hand, she began reading again, then lifted her head as he turned up the heat under some olive oil. “Mm, it’s starting to smell good. What are we having, anyway?”