Spencerville

the place, as well. Jeffrey and Gail Porter. Jeffrey is an old schoolmate of mine.”
    “Which Porter is he? The one with the three sons? ”
    “No, his father had three sons. Jeffrey is one of them. Jeffrey is my age. Anyway, I just wanted you to know.”
    “Wait here. I have something for you.” She went into the kitchen and returned with his bottle of French red Burgundy, cold from the refrigerator. “This will just go to waste, so you should take it.”
    “Thank you.”
    “Why don’t you come to Fred and Lilly’s with me? I’ll call. They can put out another plate. She always makes too much. Wastes food, that woman. I told Harriet, that daughter of yours wastes—”
    “I have another engagement. Aunt Betty, listen to me. I know you don’t listen to gossip, spread gossip, or believe gossip. But in a few days or so, you’re going to hear some gossip about your favorite nephew, and about Annie Baxter. Most of what you hear will probably be true.”
    She only glanced at him a moment, then turned her attention to the items on the table.
    Keith kissed her on the cheek. “Don’t speed. I’ll write you.”
    He left Aunt Betty in the dining room, probably worried about getting to Lilly’s on time with less than an hour to spare. Keith smiled. Well, he’d gotten his wine back, which was a good trade.
    He headed home, back to the farm. It was midafternoon now, and the October sun was in the west, clouds had appeared, along with a north wind, and the countryside seemed dark, cold, and lonely on this Sunday afternoon.
    He had a sense of loneliness himself, a feeling of closure, but also an assurance that he’d done things right. He would leave in the morning, with or without her, but she would be with him in his heart, and he’d be with her. Next week, or next month, or even next year, they’d be together.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
    A t about six P.M. , Keith was in the living room, reading and drinking his Burgundy, which was at room temperature now. He’d found a box of his old college books in the attic and had chosen Edith Wharton’s
Ethan Frome.
He’d enjoyed Wharton in college, as well as other American writers from that period, including Henry James, Theodore Dreiser, and Ohio’s native son, Sherwood Anderson. He suspected, however, that no one read these people any longer. He made a mental note to ask the Porters if Anderson was still required reading at Antioch.
    His reading since college had been mostly current affairs and political nonfiction, the sort of stuff that appeared on the
Washington Post
best-seller list and probably nowhere else. He looked forward to spending the next twenty-five years reading things that had no immediate relevance whatsoever.
    He had the radio tuned to a Toledo station that played oldies, and Van Morrison had just finished “Brown Eyed Girl,” which he liked, and Percy Sledge was now crooning “When a Man Loves a Woman,” which Keith considered one of his favorite songs to make love by.
    It was dusk, made darker by the rolling clouds, and he saw the headlights of a vehicle turn into his driveway before he saw the car. A few seconds later, he heard the tires on the gravel.
    He put down his book, shut off the radio, and looked out the window. A white Lincoln passed by the house and went around to the side.
    Keith went into the kitchen and out the back door as the Lincoln came to a stop. The driver’s-side door opened, and Annie got out, wearing a white turtleneck, brown tweed skirt, and matching jacket. With her was an energetic gray mongrel who jumped out of the car and began running around the yard.
    Keith and Annie stood a few feet apart, and she smiled. “You made me lose my place in the hymnal.”
    He said, “You looked and sounded like an angel.”
    “Some angel. You should know what I was thinking up there. I must have turned as red as my robe.”
    He walked over to her, and they kissed, not passionately, but tentatively, neither knowing where this was going.
    She said, “My Aunt Harriet says you send me your regards.”
    “I do. I like her. I want you to send her a postcard from Rome.”
    Annie didn’t respond to that directly but said, “She told me she had Sunday dinner with you at your aunt’s. She went on about what a handsome, cultured man you were.” Annie added, “She even used the word sexy.”
    “My goodness.
I’ll
send her a postcard from Rome.”
    She wasn’t smiling, Keith saw, and looked as though she had a lot on her