something else.
''No plans," she said, smiling up at him. "I was just sitting here thinking how much I'd like to go on a picnic."
"And they say there's no such thing as coincidence.'' He flicked a glance at the big round clock that hung on the back wall of the bank. "How soon can you blow this joint?''
Anne resisted the urge to get up and walk out the door with him. No one would object if she took her lunch hour early, but there would be questions, explanations. Not that there wouldn't be anyway. Already she could feel Marge's eyes boring a hole in her back.
"Half an hour?"
"Perfect." Smiling, Neill straightened away from the railing. "I'll go see what I can do about putting together something to eat"
"Dorothy seemed to approve of the picnic idea," Neill said as he spread a blanket on the grass beneath the shade of an ancient maple. "She said Humphrey Bogart took Greta Garbo on a picnic in Mogambo.'' He frowned and shook his head as he sat down. "Or maybe it was Clarke Gable and Ginger Rogers in Duck Soup.''
"I think you've got your movies and actors mixed up. A lot." Anne sank down on the blanket, curling her legs beneath her, grateful that she was wearing a full skirt. "Wasn't Duck Soup a Marx Brothers movie?''
"Then maybe Gable was taking Groucho on a picnic!" Neill said, unconcerned. He glanced at her, his eyes gleaming with laughter. "Wasn't that an advertisement campaign—Gable's back and Groucho's got him?"
"I think that was Garson's got him."
"Garson. Groucho." Neill shrugged. "Who can tell the difference?"
"I'm pretty sure Groucho was the one with the mustache."
There was a small bronze plaque near the park's entrance that said it had been created to honor those who had died in World War II, followed by a list of names—husbands, sons and fathers who hadn't come home. The peaceful sweep of sun-warmed grass and spreading shade trees was worlds away from the sights and sounds of battle, which was probably the point, Neill thought idly.
In the middle of the week, they had the park almost to themselves. A few children played in the sand near the swings, and, though he couldn't see the players, Neill could hear the ragged rhythm of a basketball hitting concrete. There was a peace-fulness here that seeped bone deep. This was what he'd been looking for when he left Seattle, Neill thought. This sense of time not just standing still, but ceasing to exist.
They'd eaten sandwiches and potato salad, talking as easily as if they'd know each other for years rather than a handful of days. He'd learned that she liked old movies, mystery novels and yellow roses. She hated doing laundry, had nearly failed math in high school and considered the pocket calculator one of man's greatest inventions, rivaled only by the CD player ''because, sooner or later, tapes are bound to be eaten by a tape player." They shared a fondness for old rock and roll but divided sharply on the question of country music, with Neill claiming that, other than opera, it was the only musical medium that encouraged great storytelling and Anne wrinkling her nose at the thought of twanging guitars and nasal laments about cheating wives and love gone sour.
"You obviously haven't listened to country music in the last twenty years," Neill told her sternly and she conceded that it had been a while. From music, the talk shifted to authors they both admired. By the time they'd agreed that Hemingway was vastly overrated and that neither of them liked horror novels, the sandwiches were gone and the crumpled containers had been disposed of.
Pleasantly fall and vaguely somnolent, Neill was relieved that she didn't feel the need to break the comfortable silence that fell between them. Most people viewed silence as either a threat or a challenge.
But Anne sat across from him, leaning back on her hands, her legs stretched out in front of her, head tilted back and eyes closed. The innocent sensuality of the pose tied Neill's stomach in knots. He wanted to reach
''No plans," she said, smiling up at him. "I was just sitting here thinking how much I'd like to go on a picnic."
"And they say there's no such thing as coincidence.'' He flicked a glance at the big round clock that hung on the back wall of the bank. "How soon can you blow this joint?''
Anne resisted the urge to get up and walk out the door with him. No one would object if she took her lunch hour early, but there would be questions, explanations. Not that there wouldn't be anyway. Already she could feel Marge's eyes boring a hole in her back.
"Half an hour?"
"Perfect." Smiling, Neill straightened away from the railing. "I'll go see what I can do about putting together something to eat"
"Dorothy seemed to approve of the picnic idea," Neill said as he spread a blanket on the grass beneath the shade of an ancient maple. "She said Humphrey Bogart took Greta Garbo on a picnic in Mogambo.'' He frowned and shook his head as he sat down. "Or maybe it was Clarke Gable and Ginger Rogers in Duck Soup.''
"I think you've got your movies and actors mixed up. A lot." Anne sank down on the blanket, curling her legs beneath her, grateful that she was wearing a full skirt. "Wasn't Duck Soup a Marx Brothers movie?''
"Then maybe Gable was taking Groucho on a picnic!" Neill said, unconcerned. He glanced at her, his eyes gleaming with laughter. "Wasn't that an advertisement campaign—Gable's back and Groucho's got him?"
"I think that was Garson's got him."
"Garson. Groucho." Neill shrugged. "Who can tell the difference?"
"I'm pretty sure Groucho was the one with the mustache."
There was a small bronze plaque near the park's entrance that said it had been created to honor those who had died in World War II, followed by a list of names—husbands, sons and fathers who hadn't come home. The peaceful sweep of sun-warmed grass and spreading shade trees was worlds away from the sights and sounds of battle, which was probably the point, Neill thought idly.
In the middle of the week, they had the park almost to themselves. A few children played in the sand near the swings, and, though he couldn't see the players, Neill could hear the ragged rhythm of a basketball hitting concrete. There was a peace-fulness here that seeped bone deep. This was what he'd been looking for when he left Seattle, Neill thought. This sense of time not just standing still, but ceasing to exist.
They'd eaten sandwiches and potato salad, talking as easily as if they'd know each other for years rather than a handful of days. He'd learned that she liked old movies, mystery novels and yellow roses. She hated doing laundry, had nearly failed math in high school and considered the pocket calculator one of man's greatest inventions, rivaled only by the CD player ''because, sooner or later, tapes are bound to be eaten by a tape player." They shared a fondness for old rock and roll but divided sharply on the question of country music, with Neill claiming that, other than opera, it was the only musical medium that encouraged great storytelling and Anne wrinkling her nose at the thought of twanging guitars and nasal laments about cheating wives and love gone sour.
"You obviously haven't listened to country music in the last twenty years," Neill told her sternly and she conceded that it had been a while. From music, the talk shifted to authors they both admired. By the time they'd agreed that Hemingway was vastly overrated and that neither of them liked horror novels, the sandwiches were gone and the crumpled containers had been disposed of.
Pleasantly fall and vaguely somnolent, Neill was relieved that she didn't feel the need to break the comfortable silence that fell between them. Most people viewed silence as either a threat or a challenge.
But Anne sat across from him, leaning back on her hands, her legs stretched out in front of her, head tilted back and eyes closed. The innocent sensuality of the pose tied Neill's stomach in knots. He wanted to reach
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