By the time I drove my rental car back to the airport in Pittsburgh, I’d paid two more visits to the bookshop, eaten in every restaurant in town, and rigorously avoided Cindy’s Flowers. If I could have announced who I really was to someone, I might have passed the time with people who knew the man I loved, but I had to stay in character when I wasn’t in my motel room. The chances seemed distant that someone would find out the real reason I wanted the farm, someone who liked Joseph Flocken enough to tell him. But I couldn’t risk it. So I was virtuous, and ran in the morning, tried not to eat too much out of sheer boredom, cruised all the local shopping, and was heartily sick of Corinth, Ohio, by the time I left.

I swore I’d never wear my hair in a bun again.

I wanted Martin to meet me at the airport, so passionately I could taste it, but of course he’d want to know why he was meeting a flight from Pennsylvania, and I didn’t want to give him his wedding present in the airport.

When I got off the plane in Atlanta I felt more relaxed than I had in a week. Carrying my luggage as though it were feather-light, I located my old car in the longer-term parking, paid the exorbitant amount it took to get it out, and drove off to Lawrenceton reveling in the familiarity of home, home, home.

When I passed the Pan-Am Agra plant on my way in to town, I had to stop.

I had only been in the plant a couple of times before, and felt very much out of place. At least Martin’s secretary knew who I was.

“I’m glad you’re back,” Mrs. Sands said warmly, her grandmotherly voice at odds with the luridly dyed black hair and lavender suit. “Maybe now he’ll be happier.”

“Something wrong?”

“Oh, he got some mail from South America that made him angry, and he was on the phone all day that day, but he’s back to normal now, just about. Go on in.”

But I knocked, because he was at work; so he was looking up when I came in.