Jimmie went into the skating house to change his shoes.
The next day he walked around on the property of the Corinth Paint and Dye Works in a delirious fall of snow. A gang of men were clearing the debris from the rectangles where buildings had burned. As fast as they pried open a fresh, black wound in the whiteness the flakes swirled down upon it, healingly. When the whistle blew for noon and the men quit, Jimmie stalked toward the gate. He was wearing high boots and breeches; under his arm was a roll of blueprints. He waved at the man in the guardhouse.
“Going to lunch, Mat. Be back in about an hour.”
“Okay, Jimmie.”
“Hello.”
There was Audrey parked at the hydrant again.
Parked at the brightly scratched hydrant. Audrey, gleaming and delicious, against the lithographic landscape. She was smiling, as she nearly always was, and her face was sun-tanned to a deeper buff-pink than ever. Jimmie stopped first and came toward her slowly, explaining to himself in an idiot way that she’d gotten the sunburn in the Carolinas. He didn’t climb into the coupe. He walked to the driver’s side. Audrey had opened the window. He leaned on it.
“I hear you’re going to England,” she said. “I stopped by your house.”
“Yeah. In a few days.”
She looked at him. “Running away to think it over didn’t do any good, Jimmie. I threw the whole book at myself—all the rules about what a girl should do when disappointed in love. I traveled. I flirted with other men. I took long walks and got interested in other things. And it was just as phoney for me as a thing could possibly be.