Anne, sinking farther into the seat with each press of his hands, had never known that her feet were so sensitive; she felt the warmth traveling slowly up her legs and melting her middle, felt her heart catching itself in mid-beat.

“Better?” said Harry.

She nodded, thinking of Bobby. He was the only other boy she’d ever been out to Wisconsin Point with, and he certainly hadn’t wasted any time touching her feet. Yet, Anne couldn’t remember feeling quite like this even when he had touched her in bolder places. She sent him up a little apology, then wondered what Linda and Janice would say. She was quite certain they’d never experienced a man having his way with their feet.

She sighed, and wondered if Harry might seduce her and then skip town; maybe this was just a more subtle approach than most men would take. Men as a whole were not to be trusted, her mother had always taught her. “Especially with your looks, Anne! You have to be constantly on your guard!” And Anne had been, maintaining her virginity even in the face of Bobby’s pleas that he might die. Even when, one sweaty night, he had said he would marry her the next day, if she wanted! But, in soberer moments, he’d insisted that, if he were to be killed, better that she not be a true widow. “But—in my heart, I would be!” she had promised him, and that was the compromise they had settled upon, for lack of any truly satisfying option.

Only now, she reflected that it really wasn’t the same. If she had married Bobby, she wouldn’t be in school. She might have had a baby. She might be living at her mother’s house, a young mother herself, with no prospects for the future but a string of dirty diapers and no man to bring home the bacon. And what man would want to marry a woman who had already been through the mill? One thing was for sure: If she had married Bobby, she wouldn’t be spending this November night with her feet in Harry Mickelson’s lap. I’m sorry, Bobby, she told him again silently, relishing the warmth of Harry’s steady hands, her grief lingering like mist after a storm.

Harry went to work early on Saturday morning and was done by noon, the presses downstairs churning out the weekend edition. He threw on his coat and hat, and hollered good-bye to Maggie, who was just pulling on her gloves. He ran down the stairs loose-limbed like a kid, whistling a jaunty version of “Embraceable You.”