When Betsy and I snuggled in bed, she admitted her profound disappointment in not finding Alder's Bridge a reality. She vowed to keep searching. While I preferred not to toss a wet blanket on her quest, I remained far more pragmatic. I related Howie's comment about not letting go.
"Given all he's been through," Betsy said, "it's good to see him enthused about something. I wish it were more concrete."
"It was entertainment for a rainy day," I offered. Betsy mumbled a reply and turned away. No amorous rumble on this Saturday night.
If I awoke during the night, I don't recall doing so. The morning sunlight did the trick as the clock showed seven and I looked up to see Betsy pulling on her bathrobe. I could smell coffee. I badly had to pee and I beat her to the downstairs bathroom.
Howie was seated at the table while Quinn and Martha performed kitchen duty with eggs and bacon. A shake of Howie's head denoted no strange encounters of the weird kind. Disappointment was written in his face.
We spent our remaining time in New Hampshire with no mention of his visions. Bowing to Quinn's and Martha's suggestions, the sunny morning was spent huddled together in a 1964 fourteen foot Starcraft, spinning around the lake. Noontime found us packing up, sharing good-bye's and ready to go our separate ways. Martha would drive Howie to Boston's Logan Airport for his flight back to California while Quinn would remain to pack up his equipment before leaving later for a hundred mile drive to their home in nearby Peabody, Mass. Betsy and I faced a six hour return trip to New York.
Howie made a special note of thanking everyone for going along with his dream obsession, apologizing for hogging our time. Martha was quick to brush off his regret, telling him it was a fun exercise. Betsy and Martha hugged their goodbyes. A few minutes later, I spotted Howie and Betsy in a hushed conversation. Something made me think I wasn't finished with Howie Abbott.
We were an hour into our drive south before I broached the subject, asking her about the tete-a-tete.
"He doesn't want to let go, but he doesn't know what to do next."
"You offered to help?"
"No; well, not exactly. I promised to keep looking for a reference to Alder's Bridge for him." When I didn't reply, she continued. "It's a shame it didn't work out. The poor guy doesn't have much going his way." I agreed. The conversation slipped back to our New York life with our sojourn in New Hampshire relegated to a fun, if bizarre weekend with friends.