Sweet Everlasting by Patricia Gaffney Page B

her, at the same time it had made her feel silly, for until now she’d been as guilty as Hoyle Taber of wanting to believe that the war had been nothing but glorious, thrilling, and splendid. So she was a ninny as well as a mouse brain.
    Maybe she could write him a letter. Except for her spelling, she was good at letters. She could thank him for his bravery and for the sacrifices he’d made for his country. She might even confess that she hadn’t realized before how little “glory” there might be in a brutal, bloody battle, even if in the end your side won.
    Well. She’d seen him, even heard him talk; the evening was a success. She could go home now, and tomorrow she really might write him a letter. She clasped her hands under her chin and stared hard at Dr. Wilkes one last time; this memory would have to last and last, for she might not see him again for weeks, maybe months.
    Her fervent gaze wavered; her cheeks started to burn. Was he looking at her? No—behind her, surely; she stayed motionless and resisted the urge to turn around and see who he was smiling at. He and Eppy said last words to each other, and then he started walking toward her. She didn’t move a muscle; she felt like a rock with moss growing on it. He seemed to have her in his gaze, but if she was mistaken, standing motionless as a stone was the best defense against humiliation she could think of.
    “Hello.”
    He didn’t say it in passing; he came to a full stop in front of her and didn’t look around at anybody else. Her throat dried up; she felt herself blushing like a child. He was so tall, as tall as Broom; but unlike Broom he was strong and vigorous and athletic. Elegant, that was the word. His dark hair curled a little at the ends, and it was longer than the last time she’d seen him. She bet he thought he needed a haircut, and just hadn’t had time for it. But she didn’t think so; she liked that friendly shagginess, because it made him look young and carefree. And handsome. But he was already the handsomest man she’d ever known.
    “It’s good to see you. I didn’t know you came to these things. Are you enjoying yourself?”
    She nodded automatically. She was enjoying herself now.
    “I’ve still got that puppy. Couldn’t get anybody else to take him. He hasn’t got a name yet. I’ve been calling him T.B.D., thanks to Mrs. Quick. B.D. for short.”
    She looked quizzical.
    “ ‘That Blasted Dog.’ ”
    She grinned, and covered her mouth with the knuckles of one hand, then fumbled in her pocket for her notebook. You could name him Lou, she wrote.
    “Lou?”
    Because of how you got him.
    Now it was his turn to look puzzled.
    Pressing down a smile, she scrawled, In lou of payment, and then blushed to the roots of her hair when he threw back his head and laughed, long and loud.
    “Lou it is. I like it. Here, Lou!” he called experimentally. “It works. Thanks, Carrie.”
    She mouthed, You’re welcome. Her delighted heart felt light as a feather.
    He looked past her shoulder. She stood straighter, girding herself for good-bye. “Would you like to dance?”
    She couldn’t believe her ears. Her blood beat faster—it was celebrating. Unable to stop smiling, she shook her head.
    “No?” He looked surprised.
    She wrote in her notebook, Thank you. I wish I could but I can’t.
    “Why can’t you? Your new shoes pinch your toes?”
    She looked down at her tattered old brogans, then back up with a grin. No, she mouthed.
    “You’re tired because you were out all last night dancing?” he teased.
    She wanted to laugh at that. She mimed No again.
    “You don’t like me?” His eyes twinkled; he tried to make his lips droop in a pout, but they just wouldn’t go that way.
    That was the silliest guess of all. Carrie flushed, and bent her head over her notebook to hide her face. I can’t dance, she wrote.
    He scowled down at the message. Then he took the pencil out of her hand, closed it inside the notebook, and slipped them