Forever by Linda Cassidy Lewis Page A

don’t know where they lived, and we’d have to know that before we started looking for some kind of record.”
    Tom stared off into the distance for a moment. “I can’t tell you why, but I think they lived right here. In Indiana, I mean. Something about the woods, something . . . familiar. I’d say start looking in this area.” With an arch of his brows, he sought her opinion.
    “Look at my arm,” she said, holding it out to him. “I got goose bumps when you said that! I know you’re right.” She pulled a pen and scrap of paper from her purse and wrote herself a note. “Oh! What about when they lived? I know it wasn’t in the recent past, because you were wearing a fringed buckskin shirt . . . and the shirt was very long, almost to your knees.”
    Tom paused to light another cigarette before offering his opinion.
    “I’d say it was before 1830, because Jacob was carrying a longrifle, a flintlock. I just remembered that too,” he added, in answer to her questioning look.
    “I didn’t see your rifle,” she said, “but I caught a glimpse of the one that killed you, and it didn’t look like a modern gun. Was that a longrifle too?”
    “To be honest, I didn’t exactly take the time to examine the gun that was pointed at me.”
    Her eyes widened along with his. His sudden defensive tone had surprised them both.
    To break the uneasy silence that followed, Tom began a story he remembered his father telling him about longrifles and the hunters who used them. He hadn’t thought about those guns in years and yet the details flowed from him as though the topic was his specialty. Annie appeared to hang on his every word.
    Two drinks became three, and they talked on. When Tom started to order a fourth round, Annie declined. “If I drink any more on an empty stomach, you’ll have to carry me out of here.”
    “We can’t have that.” He motioned for the waitress, uneasily aware that the thought of sweeping a soft and yielding Annie into his arms had caused a stir in his crotch.
    They ordered dinner and continued their conversation. At one point, Tom left the table to take a leak, pausing long enough outside the men’s room to make a phone call home.
    “Lindsay, let me talk to Mom.”
    “She’s not here. Remember? She and Patricia have that book discussion thing tonight.”
    He let out the breath he’d been holding, relieved that he wouldn’t have to lie directly to Julie.
    (As if lying to your daughter exonerates you?)
    “Are you on your way home, Dad?”
    “No, I won’t be there for a while.”
    “Well, Mom left a casserole in the fridge. I’m not hungry, but I can nuke it for you when you get home.”
    “I’ll just grab something . . . with the guys.”
    “Okay. Later. Love ya.”
    Tom clicked off the phone and forced a smile before he returned to the booth where Annie waited. After they finished eating, the waitress brought the check and then Tom’s change, but they made no move to leave. When Tom noticed the waitress directing a look at them, telegraphing her irritation that they were costing her a tip from a new customer, they ordered dessert and coffee and talked on.
    Their words and laughter had woven a web of intimacy around them, but they didn’t touch, not even later in the parking lot, when they stood very close, still reluctant to end the evening. When at last they parted, Tom promised to call her the next day.
    Ten minutes later he called from his truck.
    * * *
    Reassured that Annie had arrived home safely, Tom said good-bye for the second time that night as he pulled up to his driveway. He pocketed his cell phone, clicked the garage door opener, and sighed with relief when he saw Julie’s car wasn’t there. Neither was Lindsay’s. Evidently she’d gone out after he phoned home. Except for Max, the house was empty. The dog bounded up to Tom in the kitchen but then backed off with a whimper and hung his head.
    Tom squatted and signaled for him. He slunk forward and allowed