The Free Library, Block Island R.I.

There is one computer available in the Block Island Free Library. Nobody seems to be waiting for it, so Plot has hopped on. It's beautiful on Block Island, half an hour from the Rhode Island mainland by ferry. Huge, and we do mean huge, wood frame, Victorian google-y homes, most of which are Inns or B&Bs and are filled during the season, then empty from October through May, because after tourist season the island is deserted due to inhospitable winds, cold and lack of...well, tourists.

It's gorgeous. You can have it.

Tonight is the wedding. Plot can't wait to see the beautiful bride that he and Ducknik have known since before she was born. Then tomorrow morning Plot and Duck will get up early, catch the first ferry back to the mainland, hop into their parked rental car, drive up to Providence to meet BZ and The Big E, and continue on to Maine.

Duck feels in her element on an Eastern island -- she grew up next to water and tidal inlets, swimming in bays, smelling salt. When she sees sailboats, she swoons. Her dream of dreams would be to live on a body of warm water big enough to own a Sailfish. Sleep late, eat clams, sail.

Plotnik grew up on hot beaches and his dream has plenty of room for warm water, but no boats. No fog. Clams are OK.

But not here. Block Island is a little too conscious of itself, or so it seems. Too Country Club. It's precious. You can have it.

Tourists really are fat, y'know? They must have to resurface the sidewalks after the last ferry leaves in September. Everyone rents mopeds, or takes little shuttle buses down the tiny roads. They hang their chins out the windows sucking down double deck ice cream cones and leaking blueberry spittle. Plot and Duck stare back from their bicycle seats.

(Both are thinking: "I wish I had an ice cream cone now.")

This morning at the breakfast table there was a real Connecticut Conservative among the B&B diners, complete with suspenders and that patrician chin like Wm. H. Buckley. Every other sentence was 'Ted Kennedy' or 'Jimmy Carter' or 'Hillary Clinton.' He even brought up Wendell Wilkie. When was the last time you heard anyone mention Wendell Wilkie?

He got under Plot's skin -- OK, Bucko, that's enough. Do you really believe Ted Kennedy has nuclear fuel rods stored in his backyard? So Plot reasoned with him: "Ronald Reagan. George Bush. Dick Cheney." No blows were exchanged. The scones weren't too bad.

The wedding will be perfect, no doubt about it. Everything is cool. Calm. Civilized. You can have it.