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THE RED BALDWIN
27
He held her hand a little longer than was necessary for an ordinary farewell. She wriggled her fingers out of his clasp.
"There, Phil, you're not going away for a year, you know, and," she added to herself as she skipped up the steps, "I'm afraid—someone else is."
The western sky through the kitchen window glowed no more rosily than her cheeks, or the apple, as she groped for the note inside.
"Dear Sally," it read, "I sail Monday. Won't you meet me tonight at eight and walk to the Light? As ever—Ben."
