Pascal drove through the rain, his high beams cutting the darkness. In the twin cones of light, each falling raindrop was a slender, glittering icicle.
Ahead, a figure solidified out of the night. A female form taking shelter under a maple tree at the corner of First and Garfield.
Mrs. Alan Kirby, he thought, his lips parting in the flicker of a smile.
He eased to a stop and unlocked the passenger door, then waited, letting her come to him.
Head lowered against the rain, she left the protection of the tree and ran to the car. With her hand on the door, did she hesitate? Perhaps for a heartbeat. No longer.
Then she was inside, settling into the passenger seat, pulling the door firmly shut.
She turned to him. Her face was lit in the glow of the ceiling lamp. Her hair was blond now, and she was thinner than he remembered. But nothing essential had changed.
“Guinevere,” he said tenderly, stroking her cheek.
She fell against him, hugging his chest and weeping. In his ear he felt the warmth of her breath in time with the kiss of a single whispered word:
“Lancelot.”