“You know, Anne,” Dolores commented as she clunked their loaded plates down in front of them. “I knew Bobby. He wouldn’t expect you to mourn him forever. It’s been what, six months now?”

“Thank you, Dolores,” Anne said, looking at her meat loaf. “This looks delicious.”

Dolores sighed, put her hands on her hips. “Anything else, then, kids?”

“No, thank you,” Harry and Anne both said. Dolores scooted away.

“Well, Mr. Mickelson,” Anne said, picking up her fork. Her tone of voice had changed, and he knew she had replaced her armor. She seemed not to like to show weakness, and he was surprised she had shared as much as she had with him. “Now that I’ve bared my soul—is there anything else you need to know?”

He didn’t want barriers between them. He wanted her to trust him entirely. He didn’t know if it was possible. “Why don’t you call me Harry?” he said, lifting his fork to take a bite of his meat loaf.

“Is that a question, or a request?”

He smiled.

“Well, if it’s a question, the answer is because you’re a newspaper editor and I’m just a college girl, and my mother taught me it’s polite to respect your elders.” She said this with a gleam in her eye, and he knew it was a playful jab.

He laughed. “All right, then, how old do you think I am?”

She took a bite and chewed, looking up to the ceiling as though deep in thought. After she swallowed, her eyes flashed back to his. “Well, that’s kind of a tricky question, Mr.—Harry. If I consider your esteemed position in the community—”

Harry raised an eyebrow.

Anne laughed. “No, no, hear me out. I’ll bet it takes some time to get enough experience to become a newspaper editor. I can assume that you’ve been to college—?”

Harry nodded.

“And you probably had to work as a reporter for some time before becoming an editor. Because it’s obvious you’re a good reporter, with all the questions you’ve been asking me!”

He laughed.

“So if I had to guess, I might say, thirty-five? Thirty-six?”

He grinned.

She pointed her fork. “But then there’s a spark in your eyes! Which makes me think you’re—thirty-two? But then I’d have to wonder why you weren’t in the service.”

“Well, I can answer that for you,” he said quickly. “Knee injury. Back from my high school football days.”

“Oh, dear. I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. “In any case, you’ve got quite the powers of deduction, there, Miss Wallace. If you’re looking for a job after graduation, maybe I could hire you as an investigative reporter.”

“Wouldn’t that raise some eyebrows!” she said. “A woman reporter!”