And wind responded. “She’s coming.”
Ripples raced across the grass.
Ten minutes later Linda arrived. She stood across the street, dressed in crisp green, with a gold jacket. She started to cross, walking with long, confident strides. A pickup approached. She paused, let it go through, and came on again.
Teenagers occupied most of the benches. Only one, down near the cavalryman statue, was empty. The wind rearranged her hair. Linda shook it back into place, walked to the bench, and sat down. She opened her briefcase, took out her book, which was The Old Curiosity Shop, and looked around. Looked around. For him, possibly?
But he wasn’t easily visible from her position. She started to read.
The park and the people coming and going with their hands filled with books, and the neat little frame houses lining Gunther Street, and the bottomless blue sky, all served as backdrop for her. The world centered on the bench and the green-eyed woman.
Arnold’s breathing was uneven.
Linda had to have other men in her life. Hunks, probably. What chance did he have?
And she would be annoyed to see that he was still pestering her.
Walk away. Go home. Forget it.
And pay the coward’s price. As he always had.
Warm air flowed across him. The Traveler.
He stepped out onto the pavement, and started in her direction. Keep hands loose at sides. Try to look self-assured.
Don’t stoop.
She glanced his way, appeared not to recognize him. He drew closer, slowing, determined to stay with his strategy. He strolled past her, stopped as if he’d just noticed something. “Isn’t that The Old Curiosity Shop?” He spoke slowly, deliberately, forcing his voice into a low register, striving to hold down the panic that was rising on all sides.
“Why, yes,” she said. She looked at him again. Her brow furrowed. He saw recognition ignite in that green gaze. Felt a soft warm breeze move at his side. “Have you read it?”
“No,” he said. “I haven’t gotten to it yet. I like Dickens. Just finished Our Mutual Friend.” He tried to smile casually. But his lips and mouth felt tight. Encouraged, he took a step toward her.
She was using a cereal coupon as a bookmark. She inserted it in her page, but did not close the book. “It’s a good novel. One of his best.”
He wasn’t sure which one she was referring to. But he charged ahead. “I agree. It’s unforgettable.” That had a ring of repetition about it, but it was too late now.
“I love Dickens,” she said.
“So do I.”
“What was it you found particularly memorable?”
That was easy. “Bella Wilfer,” he said. “I think I fell in love with her.” That sounded a bit daring.
She smiled at him and the day grew warm. Hormones poured into his blood.
Linda made room, without being asked this time. They talked about Mr. Boffin and Silas Wegg and the evils of arranged marriages. “Dickens never disappoints,” she said.
And she was just starting The Old Curiosity Shop. Did that mean there was after all no male dominating her time? “What else have you read by him?”
What indeed?
A light autumn breeze scattered leaves across the grass.
What Dickens movies had he seen? What summaries out of Cliff’s Notes could he remember? He’d started to watch Nicholas Nickleby on TV recently, but he’d gotten bored and switched to a cop show. Great Expectations he remembered vaguely from high school. It had a convict and a kid.
He felt her eyes on him, felt it all slipping away. He was about to try his luck with the convict when he saw the obvious escape: “Scrooge,” he said. “The Christmas Carol. Despite all the times I’ve read it, and seen it, it still just blows me away.”
She nodded. “‘Marley was dead.’” There was a wisp of disapproval in the remark, but whether of his choice, or Marley’s behavior, or something that had escaped his notice, he didn’t know. Possibly she had hoped for something a little more exotic. Edmund Drood maybe, the one Dickens hadn’t finished. But what, other than the fact of its incompletion, did Arnold know about Edmund Drood?
They talked at length about the author and his work, a dialogue that consisted of pointed remarks by Linda, and fully-realized generalizations by Arnold, coupled with strategic nods and affirmatives. At his earliest opportunity, he switched the conversation into a safer channel.
Linda (they were by then on a first name basis) described her work as a fourth grade teacher, and Arnold mentioned that he owned the Lock ‘n’ Bolt. They talked about the state of American education and the failure of government at every level to support the schools, and Arnold commented on the condition of the economy, and how lucky they were in Fort Moxie to be able to attract good teachers. “It’s a safe town,” he said. “Temperature runs between ten and forty below most of the winter. No gangs hanging around, I’ll tell you.”
She openly admired his suede jacket, and he good-humoredly held out the sleeve for her to touch.
Shadows lengthened, and they talked about what it took to get kids to read, the problems in the Middle East, and how the weather was turning cold. Linda rubbed her hands together and suddenly announced that, speaking of the cold, it was getting late, and she should be going.
Arnold, realizing the moment of truth had arrived, threw caution to the wind. “Linda, can I persuade you to have dinner with me?”
She got to her feet, and appraised him with no attempt at concealment. “Tonight?”
“If you’re available.”
“Yes,” she said, tilting her head slightly. “I’d love to.”
The Depot, over in Minnesota on route 75, was de rigeur for food and romance. It featured soft music, dark corners, a fireplace, and flickering candles in red wine bottles. Prices were moderately high, but on this night that was not a consideration.
They ordered chablis, and Linda shrugged out of her jacket. She was new to Fort Moxie, having moved up from Fargo, she explained, to take the fourth grade job at the Thomas Jefferson school. She enjoyed the work. Loved the work. And Arnold began to sense that he had a clear field.
“We’re not usually so lucky,” he said, riding his crest. “Remote place like this, people are more inclined to move out than in.”
The wine came. She gallantly offered a toast. “To Arnold, Fort Moxie’s resident Dickens scholar.”
“Here, here,” he said.
She smiled at him across the rim of her glass. “You’re wondering why I came to Fort Moxie to teach.”
“Yes. I am curious. If you don’t mind.”
“No.” Nonetheless, she seemed hesitant. “Not at all. The Jefferson school gives me a lot of freedom to do what I want. I like to read to the kids, and I like to be able to choose what I read.”
“You couldn’t do that in Fargo?”
“Within limits.” A shadow, a momentary regret, passed over her face. She had left something behind.
She asked questions about his life, about the history of the tiny border town, and about his interest in Dickens. How had that happened? Something in her features suggested that his game lay exposed. That she knew, and that she thought no less of him for it. She seemed, in fact, amused.
The evening flowed. They ordered T-bones and a second round of chablis. Candles glittered in her eyes and in the wine. She had fine white teeth, and the shifting light created shadows at her jawline and at the base of her throat.
“I grew up in Bismarck,” she said.
“How did you get to Fargo?”
“I wanted to change my zip code.” She sounded quite serious.
“Get away from the family?”