He was, for a moment, too pleased to speak. He turned on the lights and the wipers, put the truck into gear, and pulled away from the curb.

She spoke up. “When my brother comes home—maybe you’d like to interview him? For the paper? He was at Normandy and the Battle of the Bulge and everything.”

Harry smiled to himself, feeling the tires trail through the wet snow. “You’ll have to let me know when he comes home.”

“I will. Thank you.”

“I’ll give you my direct number; you can call anytime.”

“Thank you,” she said again, then leaned back in her seat with a sigh. They had gone a block before she spoke again. “You know, I haven’t thought about Bobby for at least an hour. I can’t remember when that’s ever happened.”

He looked over at her, and caught her in profile. For an instant, everything stopped. He swallowed. “Is that good or bad?”

“I don’t know,” she said, her smile nearly imperceptible.

After he dropped Anne off at her house, Harry drove downtown, parked the truck in its customary spot next to the Gazette loading dock, and let himself into the building with his key. The sound of his whistling echoed through the empty foyer as he tramped up the two flights of stairs to his office, unlocked the door, and went in. He flipped on the light in the empty newsroom, hung his coat and hat on the rack, pulled his notebook out of his coat pocket, then opened the door to his own office. Soon he was settled behind his desk, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, enjoying the clean look of a fresh sheet of paper in his typewriter. “ST. FRANCIS PATIENTS REMAIN IN CAPABLE HANDS OF RED CROSS VOLUNTEERS”, he typed.

Despite his best intentions of getting the article written while the information was fresh, his mind wandered. He’d felt like a kid at the end of their evening together. When he pulled up to the curb in front of the house she indicated, he offered to walk her to the door. She said he didn’t need to, but he insisted. He held her elbow all the way up the slippery walk, and they exchanged witty repartees about Superior’s fine weather. When they reached the bottom of the porch steps, though, he didn’t know what to do. The urge to touch her face was so strong that he shoved his hands into his coat pockets.

“Thank you for supper,” she had said, smiling up at him. “And for doing the article, too. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”