"You ever read Ernest Hemingway?" I asked.
"A little."
"In For Whom the Bell Tolls a Republican guerrilla is about to die on a hilltop in Spain and he tells himself, 'The world is a fine place and well worth the fighting for.' I always try to remember that line when I get down with the nature of things," I said.
We stopped at a restaurant on the eastern shore. It was too cool to eat by the water, but we took a table near the back window where we could see the afterglow of the sun on the hills on the far side of the lake and a steep-sided wooded island where there was a lighted log mansion set inside the trees and a white seaplane was taxiing in a rocky cove at the base of a cliff.
"I might have a chance to buy one of those islands out there," she said.
"You have that kind of money?" I said.
"Not really. But you only live once, right?"
It started to rain out on the lake, and the string of electric lights over the marina came on and Cleo gazed at the boats rocking in their slips, her thoughts known only to herself.
"This is one of the prettiest places I've ever been," I said.
But she didn't seem to hear me.
"I talked with an FBI agent about my son once," she said. "I told him my son was killed on National Forest lands. I thought I could get federal help solving his murder. He called back and said he checked, the body was actually on a state road when it was discovered. I hung up. I couldn't find words to speak. I've always regretted that."
The waitress brought the wine and poured it into both our glasses. Cleo took a sip, ate a piece of bread, then drank deeply from the glass. When she set it down, her mouth was red, her face striped with shadows from the raindrops that ran down the window. Beyond the marina was a motel built on a promontory above the lake. There was a blue neon sign over the entrance and families were eating in a back dining room that was supported by pilings built into the rock.
"You don't have to work tomorrow, huh?" I said.
"No."
"I'm glad."
"Why?"
"Maybe we could do something together," I said.
"You've never been married?"
"No. I have a son, though. He's twenty. He goes to Texas A amp;M."
"What happened to his mother?"
"She died. She was married to another man when she conceived our son. His name is Lucas. He's probably one of the best string musicians in the state of Texas."
The waitress brought our food and went away. The lake was dark now, and a sailboat was anchored out in the chop, its cabin glowing with an oily yellow light. The back door of the restaurant was open to let in the cool air, and I could hear a band playing at the motel up on the promontory.
"That's Glenn Miller," I said.
"Montana is a time warp," she said.
"So are all good places," I said.
She was quiet for a moment, then she set down her fork and lifted her eyes.
"You're not eating," she said.
"I don't eat much," I said.
"Billy Bob, you have a tendency to stare at people."
"Do you want to go?" I said.