She looked at the fire as if it were a work of art like a sand castle on a beach. “Nice and warm,” she said. “I’ve been over in Coverton, watching State play Wesleyan.”
“Who won?”
“We didn’t stay to see the end. State was ahead—thirty points—at the half. And Kit wanted a drink.”
“He didn’t bring you home,” Chuck said.
“We had a fight.” She kicked a spruce cone into the fire. “About you.”
“Me?” He leaned on the rake, slender, dark, smiling.
“I said—you and I had a date for tonight.”
“Do we?”
“Heck, Charles! You’re going back tomorrow. I sort of assumed we’d spend the evening together. Or with your family.”
“Swell.”