riday brought the first truly crisp air of autumn. In the morning, light frost had dusted every grassy patch; people saw their breath as they climbed in their cars to go to work. The oaks and the dogwoods and the magnolias had yet to begin their slow turn toward red and orange and now, with the day winding down, Sarah watched the sunlight filtering through the leaves, casting shadows along the pavement.

Miles would be here before long, and she’d been thinking about it on and off all day. With three messages on her answering machine, she knew her mother had been thinking about it as well—a little too much, in Sarah’s opinion. Her mother had rambled on and on, leaving—it seemed to Sarah—no stone unturned. “About tonight, don’t forget to bring a jacket. You don’t want to catch pneumonia. With this chill, it’s possible, you know,” began one, and from there it went on to offer all sorts of interesting advice, from not wearing too much makeup or fancy jewelry “so he won’t get the wrong impression,” to making sure the nylons that Sarah was wearing didn’t have any runs in them (“Nothing looks worse, you know”). The second message began by backtracking to the first and sounded a little more frantic, as if her mother knew she was running out of time to dispense the worldly wisdom she’d accumulated over the years: “When I said jacket, I meant something classy. Something light. I know you might get cold, but you want to look nice. And for God’s sake, whatever you do, don’t wear that big long green one you’re so fond of. It may be warm, but it’s ugly as sin. . .  .” When she heard her mother’s voice on the third message, this timereally frantic as she described the importance of reading the newspaper “so you’ll have something to talk about,” Sarah simply hit the delete button without bothering to listen to the rest of it.

She had a date to get ready for.

• • •

Through the window an hour later, Sarah saw Miles coming around the corner with a long box under his arm. He paused for a moment, as if he were making sure he was in the right place, then opened the downstairs door and vanished inside. As she heard him climb the stairs, she smoothed the black cocktail dress she’d agonized over while deciding what to wear, then opened the door.  “Hey there . . . am I late?”

Sarah smiled. “No, you’re right on time. I saw you coming up.”

Miles took a deep breath. “You look beautiful,” he said.

“Thank you.” She motioned toward the box. “Is that for me?”

He nodded as he handed her the box. Inside were six yellow roses.

“There’s one for every week you’ve been working with Jonah.”

“That’s sweet,” she said sincerely. “My mom will be impressed.”

“Your mom?”

She smiled. “I’ll tell you about her later. C’mon in while I find something to put these in.”

Miles stepped inside and took a quick glance around her apartment. It was charming—smaller than he thought it would be, but surprisingly homey, and most of the furniture blended well with the place. There was a comfortable-looking couch framed in wood, end tables with an almost fashionable fade to the stain, a nicked-up glider rocker in the corner beneath a lamp that looked a hundred years old—even the patchwork quilt thrown over the back of the chair looked like something from the last century.

In the kitchen, Sarah opened the cupboard above the sink, pushed aside a couple of bowls, and pulled down a small crystal vase, which she filled with water.  “This is a nice place you’ve got,” he said.

Sarah looked up. “Thanks. I like it.”

“Did you decorate it yourself?”

“Pretty much. I brought some things from Baltimore, but once I saw all the antique stores, I decided to replace most of it. There are some great places around here.”

Miles ran his hand along an old rolltop desk near the window, then pushed aside the curtains to peek out. “Do you like living downtown?” From the drawer, Sarah pulled out a pair of scissors and started angling the bottoms of the stems. “Yeah, but I’ll tell you, the commotion around here keeps me up all night long. All those crowds, those people screaming and fighting, partying until dawn. It’s amazing that I ever get to sleep at all.” “That quiet, huh?”

She arranged the flowers in the vase, one by one. “This is the first place I’ve ever lived where everybody seems to be in bed by nine o’clock. It’s like a ghost town down here as soon as the sun goes down, but I’ll bet that makes your job pretty easy, huh?”

“To be honest, it doesn’t really affect me. Except for eviction notices, my jurisdiction ends at the town limits. I generally work in the county.” “Running those speed traps that the South is famous for?” she asked playfully.

Miles shook his head. “No, that’s not me, either. That’s the highway patrol.”

“So what you’re really saying is that you don’t really do much at all, then. . .

.”

“Exactly,” he concurred. “Aside from teaching, I can’t think of any job less challenging to do.”

She laughed as she slid the vase toward the center of the counter. “They’re lovely. Thank you.” She stepped out from behind the counter and reached for her purse. “So where are we going?”

“Right around the corner. The Harvey Mansion. Oh, and it’s a little cool out, so you should probably wear a jacket,” he said, eyeing her sleeveless dress.  Sarah went to the closet, remembering her mother’s words on her message, wishing she hadn’t listened to it. She hated being cold, and she was one of those people who got cold very easily. But instead of going for the “big long green one” that would keep her warm, she picked out a light jacket that matched her dress, something that would have made her mother nod appreciatively. Classy. When she slipped it on, Miles looked at her as if he wanted to say something but didn’t know how.

“Is something wrong?” she asked as she pulled it on.

“Well . . . it’s cold out there. You sure you don’t want something warmer?”

“You won’t mind?”

“Why would I mind?”

She gladly switched jackets (the big long green one), and Miles helped her put it on, holding the sleeves open for her. A moment later, after locking the front door, they were making their way down the steps. As soon as Sarah stepped outside, the temperature nipped at her cheeks and she instinctively buried her hands in her pockets.

“Don’t you think it was too chilly for your other jacket?” “Definitely,” she said, smiling thankfully. “But it doesn’t match what I’m wearing.”

“I’d rather you be comfortable. And besides, this one looks good on you.”

She loved him for that. Take that, Mom!

They started down the street, and a few steps later—surprising herself as much as Miles—she took one hand from her pocket and looped it through his arm.  “So,” she said, “let me tell you about my mother.”

• • •

At their table a few minutes later, Miles couldn’t stifle a laugh. “She sounds great.”

“Easy for you to say. She’s not your mother.”

“It’s just her way of showing you that she loves you.”

“I know. But it would be easier if she didn’t always worry so much. Sometimes I think she does it on purpose just to drive me crazy.”

Despite her obvious exasperation, Sarah looked positively luminous in the flickering candlelight, Miles decided.

The Harvey Mansion was one of the better restaurants in town. Originally a home dating from the 1790s, it was a popular romantic getaway. When it was being redesigned for its current use, the owners decided to retain most of the floor plan. Miles and Sarah were led up a curving set of stairs and were seated in what was once a library. Dimly lit, it was a medium-size room with red-oak flooring and an intricately designed tin ceiling. Along two walls were mahogany shelves, lined with hundreds of books; along the third wall, the fireplace cast an ethereal glow. Sarah and Miles were seated in the corner near the window.  There were only five other tables, and though all were occupied, people talked in low murmurs.

“Mmm . . . I think you’re right,” Miles said. “Your mother probably lies awake at night thinking of new ways to torment you.”

“I thought you said you’d never met her.”

Miles chuckled. “Well, at least she’s around. Like I told you when we first met, I hardly even talk to my father anymore.”

“Where is he now?”

“I have no idea. I got a postcard a couple of months ago from Charleston, but there’s no telling if he’s still there. He doesn’t usually stay in one place all that long, he doesn’t call, and he very seldom makes it back to town. He hasn’t seen me or Jonah for years now.”

“I can’t imagine that.”

“It’s just the way he is, but then, he wasn’t exactly Ward Cleaver when I was little. Half the time, I got the impression he didn’t like having us around.” “Us?”

“Me and my mom.”

“Didn’t he love her?”

“I have no idea.”

“Oh, come on. . . .”

“I’m serious. She was pregnant when they got married, and I can’t honestly say they were ever meant for each other. They ran real hot and cold—one day they were madly in love, and the next day she was throwing his clothes on the front lawn and telling him never to come back. And when she died, he just took up and left as fast as he could. Quit his job, sold the house, bought himself a boat, and told me he was going to see the world. Didn’t know a thing about sailing, either. Said he’d learn what he needed as he went along, and I guess he has.” Sarah frowned. “That’s a little strange.”

“Not for him. To be honest, I wasn’t surprised at all, but you’d have to meet him to know what I’m talking about.” He shook his head slightly, as if disgusted.

“How did your mother die?” Sarah asked gently.

A strange, shuttered expression crossed his face, and Sarah immediately regretted bringing it up. She leaned forward. “I’m sorry—that was rude. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“It’s okay,” Miles said quietly. “I don’t mind. It happened a long time ago, so it’s not hard to talk about. It’s just that I haven’t talked about it in years.  I can’t remember the last time someone asked about my mother.” Miles drummed his fingers absently on the table before sitting up a little straighter. He spoke matter-of-factly, almost as if he were talking about someone he didn’t know. Sarah recognized the tone: It was the way she spoke of Michael now.

“My mom started having these pains in her stomach. Sometimes, she couldn’t even sleep at night. Deep down, I think she knew how serious it was, and by the time she finally went in to see the doctor, the cancer had spread to her pancreas and liver. There was nothing that anyone could do. She passed away less than three weeks later.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, not knowing what else to say.

“So am I,” he said. “I think you would have liked her.”

“I’m sure I would have.”

They were interrupted by the waiter as he approached the table and took their drink orders. As if on cue, both Sarah and Miles reached for the menus and read them quickly.

“So what’s good?” she asked.

“Everything, really.”

“No special recommendations?”

“I’ll probably get a steak of some sort.”

“Why does that not surprise me?”

He glanced up. “You have something against steak?”

“Not at all. You just didn’t strike me as the tofu and salad type.” She closed her menu. “I, on the other hand, have to watch my girlish figure.” “So what are you getting?”

She smiled. “A steak.”

Miles closed his menu and pushed it off to the side of the table. “So, now that we’ve covered my life, why don’t you tell me about yours? What was it like growing up in your family?”

Sarah set her menu on top of his.

“Unlike what you had, my parentswere Ward and June Cleaver. We lived in a suburb just outside Baltimore in the most typical of houses—four bedrooms, two bathrooms, complete with a porch, flower garden, and a white picket fence. I rode the bus to school with my neighbors, played in the front yard all weekend long, and had the biggest collection of Barbies on the whole block. Dad worked from nine to five and wore a suit every day: Mom stayed home, and I don’t think I ever saw her without an apron. And our house always smelled like a bakery. Mom made cookies for me and my brother every day, and we’d eat them in the kitchen and recite what we learned that day.”

“Sounds nice.”

“It was. My mom was great when we were little kids. She was the kind of mom that the other kids ran to if they hurt themselves or got in a jam of some sort. It wasn’t until my brother and I got older that she started to get neurotic on me.” Miles raised both eyebrows. “Now, was it that she changed, or was she always neurotic and you were too young to notice?”

“That sounds like something Sylvia would say.”

“Sylvia?”

“A friend of mine,” she said evasively, “a good friend.” If Miles sensed her hesitation, he gave no notice.

Their drinks arrived and the waiter took their order. As soon as he was gone, Miles leaned forward, bringing his face closer to hers.

“What’s your brother like?”

“Brian? He’s a nice kid. I swear, he’s more grown-up than most people I work with. But he’s shy and not real good at meeting people. He tends to be a little introspective, but when we’re together, we just click and always have. That’s one of the main reasons I came back here. I wanted to spend some time with him before he headed off to college. He just started at UNC.” Miles nodded. “So, he’s a lot younger than you,” he said, and Sarah looked up at him.

“Nota lot younger.”

“Well . . . enough. You’re what, forty? Forty-five?” he said, repeating what she’d said to him the first time they’d met.

She laughed. “A girl’s got to stay on her toes around you.”

“I’ll bet you say that to all the guys you date.”

“Actually, I’m out of practice,” she said. “I haven’t dated much since my divorce.”

Miles lowered his drink. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No.”

“A girl like you? I’m sure you’ve been asked out a lot.”

“That doesn’t mean I say yes.”

“Playing hard to get?” Miles teased.

“No,” she said. “I just didn’t want to hurt anyone.”

“So you’re a heartbreaker, huh?”

She didn’t answer right away, her eyes staring down at the table.

“No, not a heartbreaker,” she said quietly. “Brokenhearted.” Her words surprised him. Miles searched for a lighthearted response, but after seeing her expression, he decided to say nothing at all. For a few moments, Sarah seemed to be lost in a world all her own. Finally she turned toward Miles with an almost embarrassed smile.

“Sorry about that. Kind of ruined the mood, huh?”

“Not at all,” Miles answered quickly. He reached over and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Besides, you should realize that my moods don’t get ruined all that easily,” he continued. “Now, if you’d thrown your drink in my face and called me a scoundrel . . .”

Despite her obvious tension, Sarah laughed.

“You’d have a problem with that?” she asked, feeling herself relax.  “Probably,” he said with a wink. “But even then—considering it’s a first date and all—I might let that pass, too.”

• • •

It was half-past ten when they finished dinner, and as they stepped outside, Sarah was certain that she didn’t want the date to end just yet. Dinner had been wonderful, their conversation liberally greased by a bottle of excellent red wine. She wanted to spend more time with Miles, but she wasn’t quite ready to invite him up to her apartment. Behind them, just a few feet away, a car engine was clicking as it cooled, the sounds muffled and sporadic.  “Would you like to head over to the Tavern?” Miles suggested. “It’s not that far.”

Sarah agreed with a nod, pulling her jacket tighter as they started down the sidewalk at a leisurely pace, walking close together. The sidewalks were deserted, and as they passed art galleries and antique stores, a realty office, a pastry shop, a bookstore, nothing appeared to be open at all.  “Just where is this place, exactly?”

“This way,” he said, motioning with his arm. “It’s just up and around the corner.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“I’m not surprised,” he said. “This is a local hangout, and the owner’s attitude is that if you don’t know about the place, then you probably don’t belong there anyway.”

“So how do they stay in business?”

“They manage,” he said cryptically.

A minute later, they rounded the corner. Though a number of cars were parked along the street, there were no signs of life. It was almost eerie. Halfway down the block, Miles stopped at the mouth of a small alley carved between two buildings, one of which looked all but abandoned. Toward the rear, about forty feet back, a single light bulb dangled crookedly.

“This is it,” he said. Sarah hesitated and Miles took her hand, leading her down the alley, finally stopping under the light. Above the buckled doorway, the name of the establishment was written in Magic Marker. She could hear music coming from within.

“Impressive,” she said.

“Nothing but the best for you.”

“Do I detect a note of sarcasm?”

Miles laughed as he pushed open the door, leading Sarah inside.  Built into what appeared to have been the abandoned building, the Tavern was dingy and faintly redolent of mildewed wood, but surprisingly large. Four pool tables stood in the rear beneath glowing lamps that advertised different beers; a long bar ran along the far wall. An old-fashioned jukebox flanked the doorway, and a dozen tables were spread haphazardly throughout. The floor was concrete and the wooden chairs were mismatched, but that didn’t seem to matter.  It was packed.

People thronged the bar and tables; crowds formed and dispersed around the pool tables. Two women, wearing a little too much makeup, leaned against the jukebox, their tightly clad bodies swaying in rhythm as they read through the titles, figuring out what they wanted to play next.

Miles looked at her, amused. “Surprising, isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t have believed it unless I’d seen it. It’s so crowded.” “It is every weekend.” He scanned the room quickly, looking for someplace to sit.

“There’re some seats in the back . . .,” she offered.

“Those are for the people who’re playing pool.”

“Well, do you want to play a game?”

“Pool?”

“Why not? There’s a table open. Besides, it’s probably not as loud back there.”

“You’re on. Let me go set it up with the bartender. Do you want a drink?”

“Coors Light, if they’ve got it.”

“I’m sure they do. I’ll meet you at the table, okay?”

With that, Miles headed toward the bar, threading his way through the crush of people. Wedging himself between a couple of stools, he raised his hand to get the bartender’s attention. Based on the number of people waiting, it looked like it might take a while.

It was warm, and Sarah took off her jacket. As she folded it under her arm, she heard the door open behind her. Glancing over her shoulder, she moved aside to make room for two men. The first, with tattoos and long hair, looked downright dangerous; the second, dressed in jeans and a polo shirt, couldn’t have been more different, and she wondered what they could possibly have in common.  Until she looked a little closer. It was then that she decided the second one scared her more. Something in his expression, in the way he held himself, seemed infinitely more menacing.

She was thankful when the first one walked by without seeming to notice her. The other, though, paused as soon as he drew close, and she could feel his eyes on her.

“I haven’t seen you around here before. What’s your name?” he said suddenly. She could feel the cool appraisal in his gaze.

“Sylvia,” she lied.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“No, thank you,” she answered with a shake of her head.

“You want to come and sit with me and my brother, then?”

“I’m with someone,” she said.

“I don’t see anyone.”

“He’s at the bar.”

“C’mon, Otis!” the tattooed man shouted. Otis ignored him, his eyes locked on Sarah. “You sure you don’t want that drink, Sylvia?”

“Positive,” she said.

“Why not?” he asked. For some reason, even though the words came out calmly, even politely, she could feel their undercurrent of anger.  “I told you—I’m with someone,” she said stepping back.

“C’mon, Otis! I need a drink!”

Otis Timson glanced toward the sound, then faced Sarah again and smiled, as if they were at a cocktail party instead of a dive. “I’ll be around if you change your mind, Sylvia,” he said smoothly.

As soon as he was gone, Sarah exhaled sharply and plunged into the crowd, making her way toward the pool tables, getting as far away from him as possible. When she got there, she set her coat on one of the unoccupied stools and Miles arrived with the beers a moment later. One look was enough to let him know that something had happened.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, handing her the bottle of Coors.  “Just some jerk trying to pick me up. He kind of gave me the creeps. I’d forgotten what it’s like in places like this.”

Miles’s expression darkened slightly. “Did he do anything?”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

He seemed to study her answer. “You sure?”

Sarah hesitated. “Yeah, I’m sure,” she finally said. Then, touched by his concern, she tapped her bottle against his with a wink, putting the incident out of her mind. “Now, do you want to rack or should I?”

• • •

After taking off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves, Miles retrieved two pool cues from a mount on the wall.

“Now the rules are fairly simple,” Miles began. “Balls one through seven are

solid, balls nine through fifteen are stripes—”

“I know,” she said, waving a hand at him.

He looked up in surprise. “You’ve played before?”

“I think everyone’s played at least once.”

Miles handed her the pool cue. “Then I guess we’re ready. Do you want to break?

Or should I?”

“No—go ahead.”

Sarah watched as Miles went around to the head of the table, chalking his pool cue as he did so. Then, leaning over, he set his hand, drew back the cue stick, and hit the ball cleanly. A loud crack sounded, the balls scattered around the table, and the four ball rolled toward the corner pocket, dropping neatly from view. He looked up.

“That makes me solid.”

“I never doubted it for a minute,” she said.

Miles surveyed the table, deciding on his next shot, and once again, Sarah was struck by how different he was from Michael. Michael didn’t play pool, and he certainly would never have brought Sarah to a place like this. He wouldn’t have been comfortable here, and he wouldn’t have fit in—any more than Miles would have fit neatly into the world that Sarah used to occupy.  Yet as he stood before her without his jacket, his shirtsleeves rolled up, Sarah couldn’t help but acknowledge her attraction. In contrast with a lot of people who drank too much beer with their evening pizza, Miles looked almost lean. He didn’t have classic movie-star good looks, but his waist was narrow, his stomach flat, and his shoulders reassuringly broad. But it was more than that. There was something in his eyes, in the expressions he wore, that spoke of the challenges he’d faced over the last two years, something she recognized when looking in the mirror.

The jukebox fell silent for a moment, then picked up again with “Born in the USA” by Bruce Springsteen. The air was thick with cigarette smoke despite the ceiling fans that whirred above them. Sarah heard the dull roar of others laughing and joking all around them, yet as she watched Miles, it seemed almost as if they were alone. Miles sank another shot.

With a practiced eye, he looked over the table as the balls settled. He moved around to the other side and took another shot, but this time he missed the mark. Seeing that it was her turn, Sarah set her beer off to the side and picked up her cue. Miles reached for the chalk, offering it to Sarah.  “You’ve got a good shot at the line,” he said, nodding toward the corner of the table. “It’s right there on the edge of the pocket.”

“I see that,” she said, chalking the tip and then setting it aside. Looking over the table, she didn’t set up for her shot right away. As if sensing her hesitation, Miles leaned his cue against one of the stools.  “Do you need me to show you how to position your hand on the table?” he offered gamely.

“Sure.”

“Okay, then,” he said. “Make a circle with your forefinger, like this, with your other three fingers on the table.” He demonstrated with his hand on the table.  “Like this?” she said, mimicking him.

“Almost . . .” He moved closer, and as soon as he reached toward her hand, gently leaning against her as he did so, she felt something jump inside, a light shock that started in her belly and radiated outward. His hands were warm as he adjusted her fingers. Despite the smoke and the stale air, she could smell his aftershave, a clean, masculine odor.

“No—hold your finger a little tighter. You don’t want too much room or you lose control of your shot,” he said.

“How’s that?” she said, thinking how much she liked the feel of him close to her.

“Better,” he said seriously, oblivious to what she was going through. He gave her a little room. “Now when you draw back, go slowly and try to keep the cue straight and steady as you hit the ball. And remember, you don’t have to hit it that hard. The ball is right on the edge and you don’t want to scratch.” Sarah did as she was told. The shot was straight, and as Miles predicted, the nine fell in. The cue ball rolled to a stop toward the center of the table.  “That’s great,” he said, motioning toward it. “You’ve got a good shot with the fourteen now.”

“Really?” she said.

“Yeah, right there. Just line it up and do the same thing again. . . .” She did, taking her time. After the fourteen fell into the pocket, the cue ball seemed to set itself up perfectly for the next shot as well. Miles’s eyes widened in surprise. Sarah looked up at him, knowing she wanted him close again.  “That one didn’t feel as smooth as the first one,” she said. “Would you mind showing me one more time?”

“No, not at all,” he said quickly. Again he leaned against her and adjusted her hand on the table; again she smelled the aftershave. Again the moment seemed charged, but this time Miles seemed to sense it as well, lingering unnecessarily as he stood against her. There was something heady and daring about the way they were touching, something . . .wonderful. Miles drew a deep breath.  “Okay, now try it,” he said, pulling back from her as if needing a bit of space.

With a steady stroke, the eleven went in.

“I think you’ve got it now,” Miles said, reaching for his beer. Sarah moved around the table for the next shot.

As she did, he watched her. He took it all in—the graceful way she walked, the gentle curves of her body as she set up again, skin so smooth it seemed almost unreal. When Sarah ran a hand through her hair, tucking it behind her ear, he took a drink, wondering why on earth her ex-husband had let her get away. He was probably blind or an idiot, maybe both. A moment later, the twelve dropped into the pocket. Nice rhythm there, he thought, trying to focus on the game again.  For the next couple of minutes, Sarah made it look easy. She sank the ten, the ball hugging the side all the way to the pocket.

Leaning against the wall, one leg crossed over the other, Miles twirled his cue stick in his hands and waited.

The thirteen ball dropped into the side pocket on an easy tap in.

With that, he frowned slightly.Strange that she hasn’t missed a shot yet. . . .  The fifteen, on what can only be described as a lucky bank shot, followed the thirteen a moment later, and he had to fight the urge to reach for the pack of cigarettes in his jacket.

Only the eight ball was left, and Sarah stood from the table and reached for the chalk. “I go for the eight, right?” she asked.

Miles shifted slightly. “Yeah, but you’ve got to call the pocket.” “Okay,” she said. She moved around the table until her back was toward him. She pointed with her cue stick. “I guess I’ll go for the corner pocket, then.” A long shot, with a bit of an angle needed to get there. Makeable, but tough.

Sarah leaned over the table.

“Be careful you don’t scratch,” Miles added. “If you do, I win.”

“I won’t,” she whispered to herself.

Sarah took the shot. A moment later the eight dropped in, and Sarah stood and turned around, a big grin on her face. “Wow—can you believe that?” Miles was still looking at the corner pocket. “Nice shot,” he said almost in disbelief.

“Beginner’s luck,” she said dismissively. “Do you want to rack them again?” “Yeah . . . I suppose so,” he said uncertainly. “You made a few really good ones there.”

“Thanks,” she said.

Miles finished his beer before racking the balls again. He broke, sinking a ball, but he missed his second shot.

With a sympathetic shrug before she began, Sarah proceeded to run the table without a miss. By the time she’d finished, Miles was simply staring at her from his spot along the wall. He’d set aside the cue stick halfway through the game and had ordered two more beers from a passing waitress.  “I think that I’ve been hustled,” he said knowingly.

“I think you’re right,” she said, moving toward him. “But at least we weren’t betting. If we were, I wouldn’t have made it look so easy.” Miles shook his head in amazement. “Where did you learn to play?” “My dad. We always had a pool table in the house. He and I used to play all the time.”

“So why didn’t you stop me from showing you how to shoot before I made a fool of myself?”

“Well . . . you seemed so intent on helping me that I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

“Gee, I appreciate that.” He handed her a beer, and as she took it, their fingers brushed lightly. Miles swallowed.

Damn, she was pretty. Up close, even more so.

Before he could think about it any further, there was a slight commotion behind him. Miles turned at the sound.

“So how are you two doing, Deputy Ryan?”

He tensed automatically at Otis Timson’s question. Otis’s brother was standing just behind him, holding a beer, his eyes glassy. Otis gave Sarah a mock salute, and she took a small step away from Otis, toward Miles.  “And how areyou doing? Nice to see you again.”

Miles followed Otis’s eyes toward Sarah.

“He was the guy I told you about earlier,” she whispered.

Otis raised his eyebrows at that but said nothing.

“What the hell do you want, Otis?” Miles said warily, remembering what Charlie had told him.

“I don’t want anything,” Otis answered. “I just wanted to say hello.”

Miles turned away. “Do you want to go to the bar?” he asked Sarah.

“Sure,” she agreed.

“Yeah, go ahead. I don’t want to keep you from your date,” Otis said. “You got a nice gal, there,” he said. “Looks like you’ve found someone new.” Miles flinched, and Sarah saw how much the comment stung. Miles opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. His hands balled into fists, but instead he took a deep breath and turned to Sarah.

“Let’s go,” he said. His tone reflected a rage she’d never heard before.  “Oh, by the way,” Otis added. “The whole thing with Harvey? Don’t worry too much about it. I asked him to go easy on you.”

A crowd, sensing trouble, was beginning to gather. Miles stared hard at Otis, who returned the gaze without moving. Otis’s brother had moved off to the side, as if getting ready to jump in if he needed to.

“Let’s just go,” Sarah said a little more forcefully, doing her best to keep this from getting any more out of hand. She took Miles by the arm and tugged.  “Come on . . . please, Miles,” she pleaded.

It was enough to get his attention. Sarah grabbed both their jackets, stowing them under her arm as she pulled him through the crowd. People parted before them, and a minute later they were outside. Miles shook her hand from his arm, angry at Otis, angry at himself for almost losing control, and stalked down the alley, out toward the street. Sarah followed a few steps behind, pausing to put her jacket on.

“Miles . . . wait . . .”

It took a moment for the words to sink in, and Miles finally stopped, looking toward the ground. When she approached, holding out his jacket, Miles didn’t seem to notice.

“I’m sorry about all that,” he said, unable to meet her eyes.  “You didn’t do anything, Miles,” she said. When he didn’t respond, Sarah moved closer. “Are you okay?” she asked softly.

“Yeah . . . I’m okay.” His voice was so low that she barely heard it. For a moment, he looked exactly like Jonah when she assigned too much work. “You don’t look okay,” she finally said. “In fact, you look pretty terrible.” Despite his anger, he laughed under his breath. “Thanks a lot.” On the street, a car rolled by, looking for a parking space. A cigarette sailed out the window, landing in the gutter. It was colder now, too cold to stay in one place, and Miles reached for his jacket and slipped it on. Without a word, they set off down the street. Once they reached the corner, Sarah broke the silence.

“Can I ask what that was all about in there?”

After a long moment, Miles shrugged. “It’s a long story.”

“They usually are.”

They took a few steps, their footsteps the only sound on the streets.

“We have a history,” Miles finally offered. “Not a very good one.”

“I picked up on that part,” she said. “I’m not exactly dense, you know.”

Miles didn’t respond.

“Look, if you’d rather not talk about it . . .”

It offered Miles a way out, and he almost took her up on it. Instead, however, he pushed his hands into his pockets and closed his eyes for a long moment. Over the next few minutes, he told Sarah everything—about the arrests over the years, the vandalism in and around his home, the cut on Jonah’s cheek—ending with the latest arrest and even Charlie’s warning. As he talked, they wound back through downtown, past the closed-up businesses and the Episcopal church, finally crossing Front Street and heading into the park at Union Point. Through it all, Sarah listened quietly. When he was finished, she looked up at him.  “I’m sorry I stopped you,” she said quietly. “I should have let you beat him to a pulp.”

“No, I’m glad you did. He’s not worth it.”

They passed the old women’s club, once a quaint meeting place but long since abandoned, and the ruins of the building seemed to encourage silence, almost as if they were in a cemetery. Years of flooding by the Neuse had rendered the building all but uninhabitable except for birds and other assorted wildlife.  Once Miles and Sarah neared the riverbank, they stopped to stare at the tar-colored water of the Neuse drifting slowly before them. Water slapped against the marlstone along the banks in a steady rhythm.  “Tell me about Missy,” she said finally, breaking the stillness that had settled over them.

“Missy?”

“I’d like to know what she was like,” she said honestly. “She’s a big part of who you are, but I don’t know anything about her.”

After a moment, Miles shook his head. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“Well . . . what do you miss the most?”

Across the river, a mile distant, he could see flickering porch lights, bright pinpricks in the distance that seemed to hang in the air like fireflies on hot summer nights.

“I miss having her around,” he began. “Just being there when I got off work, or waking up beside her, or seeing her in the kitchen or out in the yard—anywhere.  Even if we didn’t have much time, there was something special in knowing that she would be there if I needed her. And she would have been. We’d been married long enough to go through all those stages that married people go through—the good, the not so good, even the bad—and we’d settled into something that worked for both of us. We were both kids when we started out, and we knew people who got married around the same time we did. After seven years, a lot of friends had divorced and a few had already gotten remarried.” He turned from the river to face her. “But we made it, you know? I look back on that, and it’s something that I’m proud of, because I know how rare it was. I never regretted the fact that I’d married her. Never.”

Miles cleared his throat.

“We used to spend hours just talking about everything, or about nothing. It didn’t really matter. She loved books and she used to tell me all the stories she was reading, and she could do it in a way that made me want to read them, too. I remember she used to read in bed and sometimes I’d wake up in the middle of the night and she’d be sound asleep with the book on the end table with her reading light still on. I’d have to get out of bed to turn it off. That happened more often after Jonah was born—she was tired all the time, but even then, she had a way of acting like she wasn’t. She was wonderful with him. I remember when Jonah started trying to walk. He was about seven months old, which is way too early. I mean, he couldn’t even crawl yet, but he wanted to walk. She spent weeks walking through the house all bent over so he could hold her fingers, just because he liked it. She’d be so sore in the evenings that unless I gave her a massage, she wouldn’t be able to move the next day. But you know . . .” He paused, meeting Sarah’s eyes.

“She never complained about it. I think it was what she was meant to do. She used to tell me that she wanted to have four kids, but after Jonah, I kept coming up with excuses why it wasn’t the right time, until she finally put her foot down. She wanted Jonah to have brothers and sisters, and I realized that I did, too. I know from experience how hard it is to be an only child, and I wish I’d listened to her earlier. For Jonah, I mean.”

Sarah swallowed before squeezing his arm in support. “She sounds great.”

On the river, a trawler was inching its way up the channel, engines humming.  When the breeze drifted in his direction, Miles caught the barest hint of the honeysuckle shampoo she’d used.

For a while they stood in companionable silence, the comfort of each other’s presence cocooning them like a warm blanket in the dark.  It was getting late now. Time to call it a night. As much as he wished he could make the night last forever, he knew he couldn’t. Mrs. Knowlson expected him home by midnight.

“We should go,” he said.

Five minutes later, outside her building, Sarah let go of his arm so she could search for her keys.

“I had a good time tonight,” she said.

“So did I.”

“And I’ll see you tomorrow?”

It took a second before he remembered that she was going to Jonah’s game. “Don’t forget—it starts at nine.”

“Do you know what field?”

“I have no idea, but we’ll be there. I’ll watch for you.”

In the brief lull that followed, Sarah thought that Miles might try to kiss her, but he surprised her by taking a small step backward.

“Listen . . . I gotta go . . .”

“I know,” she said, both glad and disappointed that he hadn’t tried. “Drive safe.”

Sarah watched him head around the corner toward a small silver pickup truck and open the door, slipping behind the wheel. He waved one last time before starting the engine.

She stood on the sidewalk staring after his taillights until long after he was gone.