"Leavestaking, you mean."
"No, homecoming. It's not December. It's August. You've just opened the front door and said, 'Mary, I'm home!' And all the time in between hasn't been. It never will be."
He smiled for the first time.
"Now that's better."
The woman handed John Hastings a goblet, plump with yellow liquid. "To August, dear," she said, and raised her glass. "To the moment your foot touches Earth again. And to the wine ... warm and golden, like our life together."
"Let's eat," he said. "Let's not ask questions." He faltered in a lack of direction.
"Wait a minute."
"For what?"
"For the questions you can't ask." The gaiety was gone. It was real now. "I think it's time we swept out the corners."
John nodded, his face slack.