He thought about Clare. Did he want to see her tonight?
Well, no, to be honest about it, he didn’t. But if he disappeared for two weeks or so without having even said good-bye to her, then he’d have to write her off his books; she wouldn’t like that.
He’d better.
He stopped in at a drug store and called her home. He said, “This is George, Clare. Listen, I’m being sent out of town tomorrow on an assignment; don’t know how long I’ll be gone. One of those things that might be a few days or a few weeks. But could I see you late this evening, to say so-long?”
“Why sure, George. What time?”
“It might be after nine, but not much after. That be okay? I’m seeing Charlie first, on business; may not be able to get away before nine.”
“Of course, George. Any time.”
He stopped in at a hamburger stand, although he wasn’t hungry, and managed to eat a sandwich and a piece of pie. That made it a quarter after six and, if he walked, he’d get to Charlie’s at just about the right time. So he walked.
Charlie met him at the door. With finger on his lips, he jerked his head backward toward the kitchen where Marge was wiping dishes. He whispered, “I didn’t tell Marge, George. It’d worry her.”
He wanted to ask Charlie why it would, or should, worry Marge, but he didn’t. Maybe he was a little afraid of the answer. It would have to mean that Marge was worrying about him already, and that was a bad sign. He thought he’d been carrying everything off pretty well for three years now.