still wore, slid into a booth across from
his. Every so often they flashed flirtatious glances his way.
Where had they
been when he was fifteen and in desperate need of encouragement, too shy to ask
a girl out on the dance floor? In those days he had remained in a dark comer.
If Ritz had attended the ninth-grade prom. . . but she had been too poor to
dress appropriately, and too proud to go dressed as she was. And he—he had been
too proud not to go, but he had worn faded jeans and tennis shoes instead of
loafers and a T-shirt in place of a button-down.
He took another
deep swallow from his frosty mug. Over its rim, he saw Nelda talking to Soren
while the two made their way across the dance floor toward him. The strawberry
blonde looked fetching in some kind of yellow polka-dotted sundress.
“Hi, Jonah.”
Nelda’s smile still had its impartial cheerleader friendliness, but her eyes
glowed with a warm and personal message. '‘Look who I ran into. Do you mind if
I join you two?”
“I told her we’d
be affronted if she didn’t,” Soren said. “Almost like old times, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Jonah
agreed. Except in the old days, Ritz had also been there.
“Hey, why don’t
we reserve a table downstairs for dinner tonight?” Nelda asked.
“Sorry, but I’m
not staying.”
“Oh, come on,
Jonah,” she coaxed with a bright smile. “For old times’ sake.”
He began to
shake his head, then stopped. “You’ll have to convince Ritz.” He nodded toward
the stairs. “I rode into town with her.”
In the strobe's
dim light, her khaki pants and brown shirt were a blur, while her hair was
almost luminous. Her hair was one of her most astonishing features, he thought.
Very blond and generous, like her wide, perfectly formed mouth. She still
carried herself with that touch of arrogance, and her brilliant, dark brown
eyes surveyed the room with a look that seemed to announce calmly, “I couldn’t
care less about your opinion.” In all his travels, he had never met a woman who
looked more capable of taking on the whole world than she did.
She, in turn,
had seen him, and as she made her way toward his booth he felt irrationally
annoyed that the sight of her could arouse heartaches he’d thought he had put
to rest—and, yes, a sense of excitement, too.
Soren, Jonah
noted, had also become alert. Above his broad Scandinavian cheekbones, his blue
eyes flared with renewed interest at the woman who paused before the booth with
all the majesty of a queen inspecting her guard. Jonah thought he caught a
shadow of wariness in her eyes, a defensive straightening of her shoulders, at
the sight of her old classmates.
Soren rose at
the same time he did and said, “I don’t believe it. Rita-lou Randall. If you
don’t make a mockery of middle age, I don’t know what does.” She offered her
cheek for his good-natured kiss. “You’re not doing too badly yourself.” She
slid into the empty space beside Jonah, and he smelled again the faint scent of
some woodsy perfume he couldn’t identify, except that he remembered smelling it
the afternoon she had come up out of the river, struggling in his arms.
“All we need is
Chap,” Soren said, “and it’d be ‘Hail, hail, the gang’s all here.’ ”
Jonah spotted
the jab Nelda delivered to Soren’s ribs. Soren had already gone off to college
when the blowup occurred between Ritz and Chap and C.B., and apparently all the
talk had died down by the time he returned.
“It’s all right,
Soren,” Rita-lou said. “I took the skeletons out of the closet a long time
ago.”
A relieved smile
eased Nelda’s worried expression. “I think we all have some skeletons we’d like
to bury. In my case, Stan Acton—the polecat!”
“Could we
convince you and Jonah to stay for dinner?” Soren asked Rita-lou.
She shook her
head. “No, but I’d settle for a light beer.” She glanced at Jonah with a
questioning smile. “That is, if you have the time.”
He felt as
his. Every so often they flashed flirtatious glances his way.
Where had they
been when he was fifteen and in desperate need of encouragement, too shy to ask
a girl out on the dance floor? In those days he had remained in a dark comer.
If Ritz had attended the ninth-grade prom. . . but she had been too poor to
dress appropriately, and too proud to go dressed as she was. And he—he had been
too proud not to go, but he had worn faded jeans and tennis shoes instead of
loafers and a T-shirt in place of a button-down.
He took another
deep swallow from his frosty mug. Over its rim, he saw Nelda talking to Soren
while the two made their way across the dance floor toward him. The strawberry
blonde looked fetching in some kind of yellow polka-dotted sundress.
“Hi, Jonah.”
Nelda’s smile still had its impartial cheerleader friendliness, but her eyes
glowed with a warm and personal message. '‘Look who I ran into. Do you mind if
I join you two?”
“I told her we’d
be affronted if she didn’t,” Soren said. “Almost like old times, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Jonah
agreed. Except in the old days, Ritz had also been there.
“Hey, why don’t
we reserve a table downstairs for dinner tonight?” Nelda asked.
“Sorry, but I’m
not staying.”
“Oh, come on,
Jonah,” she coaxed with a bright smile. “For old times’ sake.”
He began to
shake his head, then stopped. “You’ll have to convince Ritz.” He nodded toward
the stairs. “I rode into town with her.”
In the strobe's
dim light, her khaki pants and brown shirt were a blur, while her hair was
almost luminous. Her hair was one of her most astonishing features, he thought.
Very blond and generous, like her wide, perfectly formed mouth. She still
carried herself with that touch of arrogance, and her brilliant, dark brown
eyes surveyed the room with a look that seemed to announce calmly, “I couldn’t
care less about your opinion.” In all his travels, he had never met a woman who
looked more capable of taking on the whole world than she did.
She, in turn,
had seen him, and as she made her way toward his booth he felt irrationally
annoyed that the sight of her could arouse heartaches he’d thought he had put
to rest—and, yes, a sense of excitement, too.
Soren, Jonah
noted, had also become alert. Above his broad Scandinavian cheekbones, his blue
eyes flared with renewed interest at the woman who paused before the booth with
all the majesty of a queen inspecting her guard. Jonah thought he caught a
shadow of wariness in her eyes, a defensive straightening of her shoulders, at
the sight of her old classmates.
Soren rose at
the same time he did and said, “I don’t believe it. Rita-lou Randall. If you
don’t make a mockery of middle age, I don’t know what does.” She offered her
cheek for his good-natured kiss. “You’re not doing too badly yourself.” She
slid into the empty space beside Jonah, and he smelled again the faint scent of
some woodsy perfume he couldn’t identify, except that he remembered smelling it
the afternoon she had come up out of the river, struggling in his arms.
“All we need is
Chap,” Soren said, “and it’d be ‘Hail, hail, the gang’s all here.’ ”
Jonah spotted
the jab Nelda delivered to Soren’s ribs. Soren had already gone off to college
when the blowup occurred between Ritz and Chap and C.B., and apparently all the
talk had died down by the time he returned.
“It’s all right,
Soren,” Rita-lou said. “I took the skeletons out of the closet a long time
ago.”
A relieved smile
eased Nelda’s worried expression. “I think we all have some skeletons we’d like
to bury. In my case, Stan Acton—the polecat!”
“Could we
convince you and Jonah to stay for dinner?” Soren asked Rita-lou.
She shook her
head. “No, but I’d settle for a light beer.” She glanced at Jonah with a
questioning smile. “That is, if you have the time.”
He felt as
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