“No.” She tried not to think too deeply about the romance of it. “We’ll have to settle for pizza in Oregon.”

“Sounds great to me. You, know, the strangest thing is the sky. There’s nothing in it.” A car whizzed by, muffler coughing, radio blaring. “What was that?”

“A car.”

“That’s debatable, but I meant what was the noise?”

“Music. Hard rock.” She reached over to turn on the radio. “That’s not as hard, but it’s still rock.”

“It’s good.” With the music playing in his head, he watched the buildings they passed. Neat single-family homes, chunky apartment complexes and a spreading single-level shopping center. The traffic thickened as they came closer to the city. He could see the high rectangular forms of office buildings and condos. It was a cluttered and, to his eyes, awkward skyline, but it was oddly compelling. Here were people, here life continued.

Libby eased down the curving ramp and headed downtown. “There’s a nice Italian place, very traditional. Red checked tablecloths, candles in bottles, hand-tossed pizza.”

Cal gave an absent nod. There were people walking the sidewalk, some old, some young, some plain, some pretty. There was noise from car engines, and the occasional bad-tempered blare of a horn. The air was warmer here and smelled slightly of exhaust. For him it was a picture out of an old book come to life.

Libby pulled into a graveled lot next to a squat white-and-green building. The neon sign across the front window said Rocky’s.

“Well, it’s not Paris.”

“It’s fine,” he murmured, but he continued to twist his head and stare.

“It must feel like stepping through the looking glass.”

“Hmm. Oh.” He remembered the book, one he’d read as a teenager. “Something like that. More like something from H. G. Wells.”

“It’s nice to know literature has survived. Are you hungry?”

“I was born hungry.” Once again he fought off a darkening mood. She was trying, and so could he.

The restaurant was dim, nearly empty, and the air simmered with spices. In the corner was a jukebox pumping out a current Top 40 hit. After a glance at a sign that read Please Seat Yourself, Libby led Cal to a corner booth. “The pizza’s really wonderful here. Have you had pizza before?”

He flicked a finger at the hardened candle wax on the bottle in the center of the table. “Some things transcend time. Pizza’s one of them.”

The waitress toddled over, a plump young woman in a bright red bib apron that had Rocky’s and a few splashes of tomato sauce dashed across the front. She placed two paper napkins beside place mats decorated with maps of Italy.

“One large,” Libby said, taking Cal’s appetite into account. “Extra cheese and pepperoni. Would you like a beer?”

“Yeah.” He tore a corner from the napkin and rolled it thoughtfully between his thumb and forefinger.