“Oh, nothing,” she said, forcing a smile. “Chris won’t be able to make it tonight after all. He said he has something else to do.” She brushed self-consciously at the new slacks and her favorite print blouse she wore, and touched the hair she’d spent most of the day setting so it would look just right. “I guess I’d better change my clothes. Wouldn’t want to get this stuff dirty.” She went toward her bedroom.

“I told you,” Bart grumbled, throwing the TV Guide across the room. “I knew him and her wouldn’t work, I knew it! I hope you’re satisfied, Cap.” He looked around. “I said I hope you’re satisfied, Delbert.”

But Del wasn’t listening to him. He didn’t hear Mike and Carol and the kids either, though he was staring straight at the TV show. His face had gone chalk white. “Don’t you get it?” he whispered.

Chris Stiles wouldn’t be able to make it tonight. And Del could guess why.

8

Chapter Eight

It was getting late. The movie’s last showing would be letting out just about now. The doors would open and the crowds would filter from the theater to find shops closed for the night and the square virtually empty save for the occasional carload of teen­agers roaming the night like the Flying Dutchman for something to do. The crowds, still laughing or grumbling depending on how the movie was, would dissipate as they reached the string of cars parked along the street.

Two of them would pause there arm in arm beneath the dimming marquee and wait until the rest of the people were gone and they more or less had the square to themselves. Then they would turn their collars up to the evening chill and, huddling close, they would stroll along the empty sidewalks, laughing and talking and window-shopping in darkened displays. If they were lucky they would find a diner open late, and she would relish being served for a change instead of doing the serving. They would sit there alone and stare at each other through the swirls of coffee steam and talk; about the movie at first and the weather and other inconsequential things, but slowly, as he opened up, the conversation would turn soft and serious. She would listen patiently to things he wanted to say, things he had to, even things she could not possibly understand or approve of. And when he was finished she would simply smile and reach across the table to take his hand, and nothing more would need to be said. And then . . .

And then?