He was silent, searching. "Hello."

Rain rattled on the roof. "I missed you."

He frowned. Looked uncomfortable. "Hutch, I have something to tell you."

Up front, she thought. That was his style. "You're getting married."

His eyes widened again. He grinned. It was the sheepish, friendly, disingenuous grin that had first attracted her two years before. Tonight, it reflected relief. The worst of this was already over. "How did you know?"

She shrugged. "People were telling me about it ten minutes after I landed."

"I'm sorry. I would have told you myself, but I didn't know you were back."

"It's not a problem. Who is she?" She negotiated a deep puddle at the exit, and turned onto Harrington Avenue.

"Her name's Teresa Pepperdil. She's like you: uses her last name. Everybody calls her 'Pep. She's a teacher."

"She's attractive, of course."

"Again, like you. I always restrict myself to beautiful women." He meant it as a compliment, but it was clumsy, and it hurt.

Hutch said nothing.

He looked past her, avoiding eye contact. "What can I tell you? She lives in South Jersey, and, as far as I know, she plans to stay here." He sounded defensive.

"Well, congratulations."

"Thanks."

She turned left onto 11th. Cal's apartment was just ahead, in a condo designed to look like a castle. The pennants hung limply. "Listen," she said, "why don't we stop and have a drink somewhere?" She almost added, for old time's sake.

"Can't," he said. "She'll be over in a little while. I need to get cleaned up."

She pulled in at the curb, short of the driveway. Cut the engine. She wanted to back off, let it go, not embarrass herself. "Cal," she said, "there's still time for us." She spoke so softly she wasn't sure he'd heard.

"No." His eyes turned away. She had expected anger, perhaps bitterness, sadness. But there was none of that. His voice sounded hollow. "There never was time for us. Not really."