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The girl took the clothes, put out her free hand. “I’m Betty Jackson,” she said. “And my husband’s name is Stewart.”

“I’m Francie Aintrell. I’m glad you — dropped in.”

Francie waited on the porch again until Betty came out. “He’s dressed now. If we could stay just a little longer...”

“Of course you can! Actually, I was sort of lonesome this afternoon.”

They went in. Francie put another heavy piece of slabwood on the fire. Stewart Jackson said, “I think I’ve stopped shivering. We certainly thank you, Miss Aintrell.”

“It’s Mrs. Aintrell. Francie Aintrell.”

She saw Betty glance toward Bob’s picture. “Is that your husband, Francie?”

“Yes, he... he was killed in Korea.” Never before had she been able to say it so flatly, so factually.

Stewart Jackson looked down at his empty glass. “That’s tough. Sorry I—”

“You couldn’t have known. And sooner or later I’ve got to get used to telling people.” She went on quickly, in an effort to cover the awkwardness, “Are you on vacation? I think I’ve seen you over in town.”

“No, we’re not on vacation,” Betty said. “Stewart sort of semi-retired last year, and we bought a camp up here. It’s — let me see — the seventh one down the shore from you. Stew has always been interested in fishing, and now we’re making lures and trying to get a mail-order business started for them.”

“I design ’em and test ’em and have a little firm down in Utica make up the wooden bodies of the plugs,” Stewart said. “Then we put them together and put on the paint job... Are you working up here or vacationing?”

“I’m working for the Government,” Francie said, “in the new weather station.” That was the cover story which all employees were instructed to use — that Unit 30 was doing meteorological research.

“We’ve heard about that place, of course,” Betty said. “Sounds rather dull to me. Do you like it?”

“It’s a job,” Francie said. “I was working in Washington, and after I heard about my husband I asked for a transfer to some other place.”

Jackson yawned. “Now I’m so comfortable, I’m getting sleepy. We better go.”

“No,” Francie said, meaning it. “Do stay. We’re neighbors. How about hamburgers over the fire?”

She saw Betty and Stewart exchange glances. She liked them. There was something wholesome and comfortable about their relationship. And, because Stewart Jackson was obviously in his mid-forties, they did not give her the constant sense of loss that a younger couple might have caused.

“We’ll stay if I can help,” Betty said, “and if you’ll return the visit. Soon.”

“Signed and sealed,” Francie said.

It was a pleasant evening. The Jack-sons were relaxed, charming. Francie liked the faint wryness of Stew’s humor. And both of them were perceptive enough to keep the conversation far away from any subject that might be related to Bob.

Francie lent them a flashlight for the boat trip back to their camp. She heard the swash of the oars as Betty rowed away, heard the night voices calling, “ ’Night, Francie! Good night!” She guessed that perhaps Stew’s heart might be shaky...

Monday she came back from work too late to make the promised call. She found the flashlight on the porch near the door, along with a note that said, “Any time at all, Francie. And we mean it. Betty and Stew.”

Tuesday was another late night. On Wednesday Clint added up the hours she had worked and sent her home at three in the afternoon, saying, “Do you want us indicted by the Committee Investigating Abuses of Civil Service Secretaries?”

“I’m not abused.”

“Out! Now! Scat!”

At the cabin she changed to jeans and a suede jacket and hiked down the trail by the empty camps to the one the Jack-sons had described. Stew was on their dock, casting with a spinning rod. “Hi! Thought the bears got you. Go on in. I’ll be up soon as I find out why this little wooden monster won’t wiggle like a fish.”

Betty flushed with pleasure when she saw Francie. “It’s nice of you to come. I’ll show you the workshop before Stew does. He gets all wound up and takes hours.”

The large, glass-enclosed porch smelled of paint and glue. There were labels for the little glassine boxes, and rows of gay, shining lures.

“Here, it says in small print, is where we earn a living,” Betty said. “But, actually, it’s going pretty well.” She held up a yellow lure with black spots. “This one,” she said, “is called — believe it or not — the Jackson Higgledy-Piggledy. A pickerel on every cast. It’s our latest achievement. Manufacturing costs twelve cents apiece, if you don’t count labor. Mail-order price, one dollar.”

“It’s pretty,” Francie said dubiously.

“Don’t admire it or Stew will put you to work addressing the new catalogues to our sucker list.”

Stew came in, and said, “I’ll bet if the sun was out it would be over the yardarm.”

“Is a Martini all right with you, Francie?” Betty asked.

Francie nodded, smiling. The Martinis were good. The dinner, much later, was even better. Stew made her an ex-officio director of the Jackson Lure Company, in charge of color schemes on bass plugs. Many times during dinner Francie felt a pang of guilt as she heard her own laughter ring out. Yet it was ridiculous to feel guilty. Bob would have wanted her to learn how to laugh all over again.

She left at eleven, and as she had brought no flashlight, Betty walked home with her, carrying a gasoline lantern. They sat on the edge of Francie’s porch for a time, smoking and watching the moonlight on the lake.

“It’s a pretty good life for us,” Betty said. “Quiet. Stew’s supposed to be quiet, avoid strenuous exercise. And he’s really taking this business seriously. Probably a good thing. Our money won’t last forever.”

“I’m so glad you two people are going to be here all winter, Betty.”

“And you don’t know how glad I am to see you, Francie. I needed some girl-talk. Say, how about a picnic soon?”

“I adore picnics.”

“There’s a place on the east shore where the afternoon sun keeps the rocks warm. But we can’t do it until Sunday. Stew wants to take a run down to New York to wind up some business things. I do the driving. Sunday okay, then?” She stood up.

“If it’s a nice day. I’ll bring a potato salad and the drinks. You bring sandwiches and dessert. Okay?”

It was agreed and Francie stood on the small porch and watched the harsh lantern light bob along the trail until it finally disappeared beyond the trees...

Sunday dawned brisk and clear. It would be pleasant enough in the sun. Francie went down the trail with her basket. When she got to the Jackson camp Betty was loading the boat. She looked cute and young in khaki trousers, a fuzzy white sweater, a peaked ballplayer’s cap.

The girls took turns rowing against the wind as they went across the lake. Stewart trolled with a deep-running plug, without success. He was grumbling about the lack of fish when they reached the far shore. Francie ruefully inspected a fresh blister the size of a dime, and then looked around at the spot Betty had found. Bulging gray rocks, like the timeless backs of prehistoric beasts, poked up through the blanket of dry pine needles. A rocky point extended into the lake.

They unloaded the boat, carrying the food up to a small natural glade beyond the rocks. Stew settled down comfortably, finding a rock that fitted his back. Betty sat on another rock. Francie sprawled on her stomach on the grass, chin on the back of her hand, inspecting the world from an ant’s-eye view.