He paid for the wine, went back to the Blazer, and put the bottles in the rear compartment. He took his Washington license plates which were in an addressed manila envelope, and walked toward the post office on the west side of Courthouse Square.
The post office was one of those old Federalist buildings with classical columns, and, as a boy, Keith had always been awed by the place. He'd once asked his father if the Romans had built it, and he'd been assured that they had. His sense of history was a little better now, and he smiled at the memory, then understood what Annie meant when she'd written about memories. He recalled accompanying her several times to the post office to buy stamps and to mail letters.
There was no line at one of the windows, and he took the envelope to the clerk, where it was weighed and stamped. Keith requested return receipt and was filling out the tag when he heard the clerk a few windows away say, "You have a good day, Mrs. Baxter."
He turned to his right and saw a woman with shoulder-length auburn hair, wearing a simple pink and white cotton summer dress, walking toward the door. She left.
He stood motionless a moment, and the clerk said to him, "Finished?"
"Yes. No... forget it." He crumpled the form and left quickly.
On the steps, he looked up and down the sidewalk but didn't see her, then spotted her with three other women walking toward the corner. He hesitated, then bounded down the steps and followed.
His mental image of Annie was of how she looked twenty-five years before, the last time he'd seen her on the day he left to report for induction. They'd made love in her apartment in Columbus, and at dawn he'd kissed her and left. Now, in her mid-forties, her figure was still youthful, and she walked with the same girlish jaunt he remembered. She was laughing and joking with her friends, and he couldn't get a good look at her face, except in brief profile as she turned to talk.
Keith found that his heart was beating rapidly, and he stopped and watched the four women. They paused at the corner and waited for the light to change. Keith took a step forward, hesitated, took another step, then stopped again. Go, you idiot. Go.
The light turned, and the four women stepped off the curb into the crosswalk. Keith stood watching them. Then Annie said something to her friends, and the three of them continued without her toward the courthouse park. Annie stood motionless a moment, then turned and walked directly toward him.
She smiled and put out her hand. "Hello, Keith. Long time."
He took her hand. "Hello, Annie."
"I'm flustered," she said.
"You look fine. I'm about to faint."
She smiled. "I doubt it." She took a step back. "Let's look at you. You haven't aged a day."
"I've aged twenty-five years. You look very good."
"Thank you, sir."
They made eye contact and held it. Her eyes were as big and sparkly as ever, he noticed, and she still wore the same pale pink lipstick he remembered. Her skin had a healthy glow, but he was surprised she wasn't tan, because she used to love the sun. There were a few wrinkles, of course, but they gave her otherwise girlish face a little maturity. She had been pretty then; she was beautiful now.
He fished around for some words, then said, "So... I got your letter. In my mailbox."
"Good."
"How was Bowling Green?"
"It was... nice. Sad."
"I was going to... I didn't know if you went alone, or..."
"Yes, I did. My daughter and I." She added, "I looked for you there. Well, not physically, but, you know..."
He nodded, then looked at her. "Do you believe this?"
"No. I'm dreaming."
"I'm... I can't find the words..."
She looked around. "Another minute or so, then I have to go."
"I understand."
"I sent you a letter. It was returned. I thought you were dead."
"No... I mean, I didn't leave a forwarding address at the office..."
"Well, I was upset for days." She cleared her throat and said, "Lost my pen pal."
He was surprised when he noticed that her eyes were moist, and he wanted to offer her a handkerchief, but knew he shouldn't. She took a tissue from her purse and pretended to pat her face but wiped her eyes. "So..." She took a deep breath. "So, how long are you here for?"
"I don't know."
"Why did you come back?"
He considered several evasive replies, then said, "To see you."
He saw she was biting her lower lip, and she was looking at the ground, clearly about to cry.
Keith didn't feel in complete control either, so he didn't speak.
Finally, she looked up at him and said, "You could have seen me anytime you were here."
"No, I couldn't, Annie. But now I can."
"God... I don't know what to say... I mean... do you... are you still?.."
"Yes."
She dabbed at her eyes again, then glanced across at the park where her friends were at the ice cream vendor's truck, looking at her and Keith. She said to him, "I have about thirty seconds before I'm doing something wrong."
He forced a smile. "It's still a small town, isn't it?"
"Real small."
He said, "I want you to know that your letters got me through some rough times."
"Same here. I have to go."
"When can we have that cup of coffee?"
She smiled. "I'll drive out to your place. When I go to see my aunt. But I don't know when I can do that."
"I'm usually home."
"I know that."
He said, "Your husband..."
"I know that, too. I know when to come."
"Okay."
She extended her hand, and he took it. Keith said with a smile, "In Europe, Washington, or New York, we'd kiss good-bye."
"In Spencerville, we just say, 'You have a real nice day now, Mr. Landry. Real good seeing you again.' " She squeezed his hand and turned away.
Keith watched her cross the street and noticed the three women taking it all in.
He stood a moment, not remembering where he was, where his car was, or what he was supposed to do next.
He found he had a lump in his throat and kept glancing at the park across the street, but they were gone now. He wanted to go find her and take her arm and tell her friends, "Excuse me, we're in love, and we're leaving."
But maybe she needed some time to think about it. Maybe she didn't like what she saw. He thought about the conversation, replayed it so he wouldn't forget it, and tried to remember the look on her face and thought about what he'd seen in her eyes.
From what he'd gathered, she'd had a bad time of things, but you couldn't tell by her eyes, or her face, or her walk. Some people showed every scar, every disappointment, every sorrow. Annie Prentis was the eternal optimist, happy, perky, and unbowed by life.
He, on the other hand, had done well in life, and perhaps he didn't look burned-out, but he carried in his heart every sorrow, disappointment, and human tragedy he'd ever seen or experienced.
It didn't do any good to wonder about how life might have been if they'd married and had children. It would have been fine. They always said that they were made exclusively for each other. It was more important now to see if it was really possible to pick up where they'd left off. The cynic in him said no. The young Keith Landry, the one who had loved completely and unconditionally, said yes.
He found his car, got inside, and started it. He was vaguely aware that he had a list of errands to do, but he started for home.
As he drove, he remembered that day, twenty-five years ago, in her bedroom in Columbus. Dawn was breaking, and he'd been awake and dressed for hours. He'd sat looking at her sleeping naked on her back in the warm room, the unforgettable profile of her face and body, her long hair tumbling onto the pillow.