counter, where her gloves lay beside her purse and car keys.
“Listen, Wes. It occurred to me,” she said, pulling on a glove, “that when they announce the names at school tomorrow, Charlotte may have other offers for the dance. I mean…” She was pressing the fingertips of one gloved hand between the joints of the other. “It’s not that Emilio doesn’t have a certain, well…charm, but…” She reversed the process to the opposite hand. “Everyone knows he works for you, Wes. It looks more like a setup, a pity date arranged by her parents, than the real thing.”
Something about her tone, and the way she raised her eyebrows seeking his agreement, reminded him of the way his mother-in-law, the very complicated Dolores Ayres, used to nudge people to do her bidding.
“A girl’s got to keep her options open,” she was saying, “not just jump at the first thing that comes along.”
Avery leaned against the opposite counter and sipped his coffee. “That what you did with me?” he asked quietly.
“Oh, Wes,” she replied with a long, hollow look. “I was hardly the prize Charlotte is.”
“Not the prize?” Avery’s mind raced with objections. He felt again his endless, aching eagerness—on the interminable troop transport flight to Sioux Falls and the sixty-hour train ride south to Tuscaloosa—to meet and marry his future wife. How many times had he read and re-read her answer to his airmailed proposal? Traced the letters
Y-E-S!
outlined and triple-underlined in red ink? They’d met by mail, on a nickel bet with fellow crewman Mac McNair over who might answer his thank-you letter to Inspector 833 at the Tuscaloosa B. F. Goodrich plant “for the rubber raft that saved my life.”
“If you hear back at all, it’ll be from some gray-haired granny,” Mac predicted. “Nah,” Avery shot back, “with my luck, it’ll be some flat-footed 4-F-er.”
Her first shy letter—“You’re most welcome”—was, in retrospect, the turning point between all the tough breaks that plagued him before and all his good fortune since. In the V-mails that followed, love had opened like a flower between them, one petal-thin page at a time. Then
finally,
after all those anxious hours on the train, he spotted the red roof of the Tuscaloosa station, exactly as she’d described it, and there she
was,
waiting on the platform—a tall, slim beauty in a navy-blue suit with a white gardenia pinned to her lapel. He was stunned. Here was the girl whose shy revelations, wise observations, and witty, self-effacing “Tales from the Tuscaloosa Homefront” had captured his heart. But
in person
! He’d seen pictures, of course, but was unprepared for Sarah’s refinement, elegant bearing, and, later, that amazing voice of hers, like velvet smoke. He’d panicked—what in the world would
she
see in
me
?—and braced himself for the inevitable crash and burn. But then she’d spotted him through the open train window. And he’d seen, like a miracle, her heart leaping into her eyes.
In the kitchen, he set down his mug and stepped forward to take her white-gloved hands.
“You were the blue-ribboned brass ring, the solid twenty-four-karat-gold jackpot…to me,” he told her.
Her fingers returned his squeeze. Her face softened. “You were always a sucker for a pretty phrase.” It was their old joke—along with
love at first write
—about their unconventional courtship and engagement.
He felt happy she’d recalled it.
“So…” She sighed, letting him go. “We’ll talk to her when I get home tonight?”
The spell of the moment was broken. She was back on Charlotte. “What mean ‘we,’ Kemo Sabe?”
“You saying I’m the Lone Ranger on this thing?”
“Well…”
“Or that
you
should talk to her?”
“Me?”
“Maybe you should, Wes,” Sarah said, warming to the idea. “She only half listens to me anyhow.” She picked up her purse and keys. “I have to go. You’ll come by after church? There are
“Listen, Wes. It occurred to me,” she said, pulling on a glove, “that when they announce the names at school tomorrow, Charlotte may have other offers for the dance. I mean…” She was pressing the fingertips of one gloved hand between the joints of the other. “It’s not that Emilio doesn’t have a certain, well…charm, but…” She reversed the process to the opposite hand. “Everyone knows he works for you, Wes. It looks more like a setup, a pity date arranged by her parents, than the real thing.”
Something about her tone, and the way she raised her eyebrows seeking his agreement, reminded him of the way his mother-in-law, the very complicated Dolores Ayres, used to nudge people to do her bidding.
“A girl’s got to keep her options open,” she was saying, “not just jump at the first thing that comes along.”
Avery leaned against the opposite counter and sipped his coffee. “That what you did with me?” he asked quietly.
“Oh, Wes,” she replied with a long, hollow look. “I was hardly the prize Charlotte is.”
“Not the prize?” Avery’s mind raced with objections. He felt again his endless, aching eagerness—on the interminable troop transport flight to Sioux Falls and the sixty-hour train ride south to Tuscaloosa—to meet and marry his future wife. How many times had he read and re-read her answer to his airmailed proposal? Traced the letters
Y-E-S!
outlined and triple-underlined in red ink? They’d met by mail, on a nickel bet with fellow crewman Mac McNair over who might answer his thank-you letter to Inspector 833 at the Tuscaloosa B. F. Goodrich plant “for the rubber raft that saved my life.”
“If you hear back at all, it’ll be from some gray-haired granny,” Mac predicted. “Nah,” Avery shot back, “with my luck, it’ll be some flat-footed 4-F-er.”
Her first shy letter—“You’re most welcome”—was, in retrospect, the turning point between all the tough breaks that plagued him before and all his good fortune since. In the V-mails that followed, love had opened like a flower between them, one petal-thin page at a time. Then
finally,
after all those anxious hours on the train, he spotted the red roof of the Tuscaloosa station, exactly as she’d described it, and there she
was,
waiting on the platform—a tall, slim beauty in a navy-blue suit with a white gardenia pinned to her lapel. He was stunned. Here was the girl whose shy revelations, wise observations, and witty, self-effacing “Tales from the Tuscaloosa Homefront” had captured his heart. But
in person
! He’d seen pictures, of course, but was unprepared for Sarah’s refinement, elegant bearing, and, later, that amazing voice of hers, like velvet smoke. He’d panicked—what in the world would
she
see in
me
?—and braced himself for the inevitable crash and burn. But then she’d spotted him through the open train window. And he’d seen, like a miracle, her heart leaping into her eyes.
In the kitchen, he set down his mug and stepped forward to take her white-gloved hands.
“You were the blue-ribboned brass ring, the solid twenty-four-karat-gold jackpot…to me,” he told her.
Her fingers returned his squeeze. Her face softened. “You were always a sucker for a pretty phrase.” It was their old joke—along with
love at first write
—about their unconventional courtship and engagement.
He felt happy she’d recalled it.
“So…” She sighed, letting him go. “We’ll talk to her when I get home tonight?”
The spell of the moment was broken. She was back on Charlotte. “What mean ‘we,’ Kemo Sabe?”
“You saying I’m the Lone Ranger on this thing?”
“Well…”
“Or that
you
should talk to her?”
“Me?”
“Maybe you should, Wes,” Sarah said, warming to the idea. “She only half listens to me anyhow.” She picked up her purse and keys. “I have to go. You’ll come by after church? There are
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