and Terrified just hiding behind that idea? Had it perhaps seized on Anna’s call as an excuse to choke off her friendship with Bill before it could develop any further?
She didn’t know, but she did know the thought she might not see him anymore made her feel miserable ... and frightened, as well, as if she had lost some vital piece of operating equipment. It was impossible for one person to become dependent on another so quickly, of course, but as one o’clock came and went, and two (and three), the idea began to seem less and less ridiculous. If such instant dependency was impossible, why did she feel so panicky and oddly drained at the thought of never seeing him again?
When she finally had fallen asleep, she’d dreamed of riding on his motorcycle again; of wearing the rose madder gown and squeezing him with her bare thighs. When the alarm had wakened her—much too soon after she finally fell asleep—she had been breathing hard and was hot all over, as if with a fever.
“Rosie, are you all right?” Rhoda asked.
“Yes,” she said. “Just ...” She glanced at Curtis, then back at Rhoda. She shrugged and hoisted the comers of her mouth in a lame little smile. “It’s just, you know, a bad time of the month for me.”
“Uh-huh,” Rhoda said. She didn’t look convinced. “Well, come on down to the caff with us. We’ll drown our sorrows in tuna salad and strawberry milkshakes.”
“You bet,” Curt said. “My treat.”
Rosie’s smile was a trifle more genuine this time, but she shook her head. “I’m going to pass. What I want is a good walk, with my face right into the wind. Blow some of the dust out.”
“If you don’t eat, you’ll probably faint dead away around three o’clock,” Rhoda said.
“I’ll grab a salad. Promise.” Rosie was already heading for the creaky old elevator. “Anything more than that and I ruin half a dozen perfectly good takes by burping, anyway.”
“It wouldn’t make much difference today,” Rhoda said. “Twelve-fifteen, okay?”
“You bet,” she said, but as the elevator lumbered down the four floors to the lobby, Rhoda’s last comment kept clanging in her head: It wouldn’t make much difference today. What if she wasn’t any better this afternoon? What if they went from take seventy-three to take eighty to take a-hundred-and-who-knew-how-many? What if, when she met with Mr. Lefferts tomorrow, he decided to give her her notice instead of a contract? What then?
She felt a sudden surge of hatred for Norman. It hit her between the eyes like some dull, heavy object—a doorstop, perhaps, or the blunt end of an old, rusty hatchet. Even if Norman hadn’t killed Mr. Slowik, even if Norman was still back in that other timezone, he was still following her, just like Peterson was following poor scared Alma St. George. He was following her inside her head.
The elevator settled and the doors opened. Rosie stepped out into the lobby, and the man standing by the building directory turned toward her, his face looking both hopeful and tentative. It was an expression that made him look younger than ever ... a teenager, almost.
“Hi, Rosie,” Bill said.
9
She felt a sudden and amazingly strong urge to run, to do it before he could see the way he had staggered her, and then his eyes fixed on hers, caught them, and running away was no longer an option. She had forgotten about the fascinating green undertints in those eyes, like sunrays caught in shallow water. Instead of running for the lobby doors, she walked slowly toward him, feeling simultaneously afraid and happy. Yet what she felt most of all was an overwhelming sense of relief.
“I told you to stay away from me.” She could hear the tremble in her voice.
He reached for her hand. She felt sure she should not let him have it, but she couldn’t stop it from happening ... nor her captured hand from turning in his grip so it could close on his long fingers.
“I know you did,” he said simply, “but Rosie, I can’t.”
That frightened her, and she dropped his hand. She studied his face uncertainly. Nothing like this had ever happened to her, nothing, and she had no idea of how to react or behave.
He opened his arms, and perhaps it was simply a gesture meant to underline and emphasize his helplessness, but it was all the gesture her tired, hopeful heart needed; it brushed aside the prissy ditherings of her mind and took charge. Rosie found