She stood at the window watching him walk up Stockton Street carrying a brown bag. The sun glinted off his new wire-rimmed glasses. They did make him look more intellectual, as Moira said, almost middle-aged and distinguished. But everything else about him was that of a young man, like his long gait and touseled hair. Although he combed back the hair, it always parted in the middle and fell on to his high forehead. The broad shoulders and athletic legs belied his artistic intensity. There he was, rubbing his hands in that familiar gesture of nervousness. Wanda had been waiting for him although they had made no definite plans about time. She, too, had been awakened by the deep blue sky, more appropriate to June than December. Wanda opened the front door before he could knock. ‘Shhh,’ she said softly as if blowing him a kiss. ‘They’re all asleep.’ He smiled, tiptoed into the living room and watched affectionately as Wanda hurried for her purse and jacket and a lap rug.
