He nodded, then looked at her. "Do you believe this?"

"No. I'm dreaming."

"I'm... I can't find the words..."

She looked around. "Another minute or so, then I have to go."

"I understand."

"I sent you a letter. It was returned. I thought you were dead."

"No... I mean, I didn't leave a forwarding address at the office..."

"Well, I was upset for days." She cleared her throat and said, "Lost my pen pal."

He was surprised when he noticed that her eyes were moist, and he wanted to offer her a handkerchief, but knew he shouldn't. She took a tissue from her purse and pretended to pat her face but wiped her eyes. "So..." She took a deep breath. "So, how long are you here for?"

"I don't know."

"Why did you come back?"

He considered several evasive replies, then said, "To see you."

He saw she was biting her lower lip, and she was looking at the ground, clearly about to cry.

Keith didn't feel in complete control either, so he didn't speak.

Finally, she looked up at him and said, "You could have seen me anytime you were here."

"No, I couldn't, Annie. But now I can."

"God... I don't know what to say... I mean... do you... are you still?.."

"Yes."

She dabbed at her eyes again, then glanced across at the park where her friends were at the ice cream vendor's truck, looking at her and Keith. She said to him, "I have about thirty seconds before I'm doing something wrong."

He forced a smile. "It's still a small town, isn't it?"

"Real small."

He said, "I want you to know that your letters got me through some rough times."

"Same here. I have to go."

"When can we have that cup of coffee?"

She smiled. "I'll drive out to your place. When I go to see my aunt. But I don't know when I can do that."

"I'm usually home."

"I know that."

He said, "Your husband..."

"I know that, too. I know when to come."

"Okay."

She extended her hand, and he took it. Keith said with a smile, "In Europe, Washington, or New York, we'd kiss good-bye."

"In Spencerville, we just say, 'You have a real nice day now, Mr. Landry. Real good seeing you again.' " She squeezed his hand and turned away.

Keith watched her cross the street and noticed the three women taking it all in.

He stood a moment, not remembering where he was, where his car was, or what he was supposed to do next.

He found he had a lump in his throat and kept glancing at the park across the street, but they were gone now. He wanted to go find her and take her arm and tell her friends, "Excuse me, we're in love, and we're leaving."

But maybe she needed some time to think about it. Maybe she didn't like what she saw. He thought about the conversation, replayed it so he wouldn't forget it, and tried to remember the look on her face and thought about what he'd seen in her eyes.

From what he'd gathered, she'd had a bad time of things, but you couldn't tell by her eyes, or her face, or her walk. Some people showed every scar, every disappointment, every sorrow. Annie Prentis was the eternal optimist, happy, perky, and unbowed by life.

He, on the other hand, had done well in life, and perhaps he didn't look burned-out, but he carried in his heart every sorrow, disappointment, and human tragedy he'd ever seen or experienced.

It didn't do any good to wonder about how life might have been if they'd married and had children. It would have been fine. They always said that they were made exclusively for each other. It was more important now to see if it was really possible to pick up where they'd left off. The cynic in him said no. The young Keith Landry, the one who had loved completely and unconditionally, said yes.

He found his car, got inside, and started it. He was vaguely aware that he had a list of errands to do, but he started for home.

As he drove, he remembered that day, twenty-five years ago, in her bedroom in Columbus. Dawn was breaking, and he'd been awake and dressed for hours. He'd sat looking at her sleeping naked on her back in the warm room, the unforgettable profile of her face and body, her long hair tumbling onto the pillow.

Certainly, he'd known that it would be a long time before they would see each other again. But it never occurred to him that a quarter century would pass and that the world they knew would have vanished so completely. Sitting in her bedroom, he'd thought briefly about the war in Asia, about the possibility that he would die, but it all seemed too remote then. They were small-town kids who'd had four idyllic years of college, and this two-year Army hitch was just a bump on the road. His only concern was that, after being inseparable in high school and college, she'd be lonely without him.

He'd finished his training at Fort Dix, but, instead of getting leave time, his training battalion had been given a crash course in riot control and sent to Philadelphia because of antiwar protests that had turned ugly. Again the world had intruded, as it did in time of war, but it was a new experience for him.

He'd managed to call her from a pay phone, but she wasn't in her apartment, and there were no answering machines in those days. He'd had a second brief opportunity to call, late at night, but her line was busy. He'd finally written her, but it took a few weeks before her reply found him back at Fort Dix. Communication was not easy in those days, and it became more difficult in a larger sense in the following months.

Keith found himself at the farm and turned into the drive that led to the house. He pulled the Blazer around the back near the garden and sat at the wheel.

He wanted to tell himself that everything would be all right now, that love conquers all. He thought he knew how he felt about her, but, aside from the memories and the letters and now seeing her, he didn't know her. And how did she feel about him? And what were they going to do about it? And what was her husband going to do about it?

Chapter Eleven

At was seven P.M. when Keith Landry pulled up to Gail and Jeffrey Porter's place, the old Bauer farm. The evenings were getting shorter and cooler, and the sky was that deep purple and magenta that Keith associated with the end of summer.

The farmhouse, a white clapboard building in need of paint, sat near the road.

Gail came out the front door and across the crabgrass lawn and met him as he climbed out of the Blazer with the wine bottles and Jeffrey's umbrella. She hugged and kissed him and said, "Keith Landry, you look terrific."

He replied, "I'm the delivery boy, ma'am. But you look pretty good yourself, and you kiss good."

She laughed. "Still the same."

"We wish." Actually, he'd only known her in their senior year when Jeffrey started seeing her, and he barely remembered what she looked like, because she had looked like a lot of thin-faced, lithe-bodied, granny-glassed, long-haired, no-makeup, peasant-dressed, barefoot girls of the time. In fact, she was still wearing a peasant dress, probably an original, her hair was still long, and she was indeed barefoot. Keith wondered if he was supposed to dress sixties for the occasion. She was still thin, too, and still braless, as he saw by the low-cut dress. She wasn't pretty then and wasn't pretty now, but she had been, and still was, sexy. He handed her the umbrella. "Jeffrey left this."

"It's a wonder he remembered where he lived. You guys had a good time, I gather."

"We did."

She took his arm and walked him toward the house. She said, "Jeffrey tells me you were a spy."

"I have laid down my cloak and dagger."

"Good. No politics tonight. Just old times."

"Hard to separate the two."

"True."

They entered the house through a battered wooden screen door, and Keith found himself in a barely furnished living room, lit only by the setting sun. From what he could make out, the furniture was sort of minimalist European modern, and it probably came in boxes with instructions badly translated from Swedish.