I had cast the die, though, so time would tell. To that degree, things were pleasantly out of my hands.
But I hadn’t forgotten the condition I’d set to Dave Stanton, and while I had no idea what Willy Kunkle might say, I was determined to make him the offer.
The timing had to be right, though, for both of us.
I wasn’t going to approach him at work. That seemed totally inappropriate. And that night, as I fine-tuned my woodworking equipment and honed my collection of chisels, I realized that part of my caution stemmed from the consequences of a possible rejection. If he turned me down, I’d be forced to reconsider my own course of action, and by now, almost guiltily, I was beginning to look forward to the challenge.
Around ten, I gave in, killed the lights, got in my car, and drove across town to Kunkle’s house. It was snowing gently, not too cold, no wind at all-a perfect winter evening. A soft and elegant coat of pure white was draped over everything horizontal, including the tops of all the outermost tree branches. The snow glistened in my headlights as if salted with flakes of mica.
No lights were on at Kunkle’s, which was unusual for a night owl like him, but the surprising explanation was parked in his driveway. Nose-to-nose with his own beaten-up Ford was another car, also covered with snow, making the house look like any other average young couple’s.
The car was Sammie’s.
I drove by without stopping. My conversation could wait, and if this sign was any evidence, it might turn out to be easier than I’d thought.