When they called up the stairs that the phone call was for him, he went listlessly down and answered it. Maybe somebody was cooking up a party.
“Jerry?”
Her voice. He felt his breath catch in his throat; “Hello, Della,” he said calmly.
“It was very sweet of you, Jerry. I want to thank you.”
“Always glad to do a favor for a friend.”
“It was a favor, Jerry. A very great favor. I think I know what it meant to you to do it. I had what I thought were two happy hours with him, and then I looked across the table and you know what?”
“What?”
“It wasn’t you. And I felt sick at heart. I’m an awful fool, Jerry.”
He felt his eyes fill with tears, felt his throat thicken. “Pretty dam fickle, aren’t you?”
“Oh, Jerry, it was awful. Now I’m sure. Now I’m really sure.”
Even in his great gladness, in his rejoicing, he felt a reflexive compulsion to make a bright, gay remark. He thought of it, but when he opened his mouth to say it nothing came out but a completely revealing sob. Slightly muffled but unmistakable.
There was a pause. “That bad?” she asked softly.
“I guess so,” he said, unsteadily.
“How about a mutual cheer association? Some place dim and Italian with trite red wine and a candle and we’ll exchange small talk.”
“Dutch?” he asked.
“I think I’ll pay. Like maybe a Valentine.”
“Give me five minutes to repair this ravaged face,” he said. And then more softly, “I love you.”
“That, too,” she said, “is a Valentine.”
