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said.
    She pulled a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of her leatherjacket, which lay over the back of a kitchen chair. Webster noted her brown leather boots standing upright near the oven.
    “You married?” she asked.
    “No,” he said.
    She took a long drag on the cigarette, as if she hadn’t had one in days. Maybe she was trying to cut down. She backed up to
     the counter and leaned against it, crossing her arms.
    “You desperate for company?” she asked.
    “Maybe.” He liked the way her navy sweater fell over her hips. “Got a job yet?”
    “No, but I have an interview tomorrow.”
    Webster stood by the door. She hadn’t invited him to sit down. “Who with?”
    “A place called Keener’s.”
    “Keezer’s,” he said. “They’re going to love you over there.”
    “You think so?”
    “I know so.”
    “Want to take me to the interview tomorrow?” she asked.
    “Keezer’s?”
    “Yeah.”
    Webster pictured showing up at the diner in his instantly recognizable cruiser and waiting for her. The rumor would be all
     over town before she was back out the door.
    “What time?” he asked.
    “Any time in the afternoon.”
    “I get off at two forty-five,” he said, lying. Three o’clock was the least busy hour of the day at the diner. After lunch
     and before the four o’clock beers and shots on the way home.
    “Cool.”
    “Just so you know, Keezer’s a son of a bitch,” Webster warned.“He’ll have you up against the wall for a feel before the week is out.”
    She smiled. “Looking forward to it,” she said.
    “You going to invite me to sit down?”
    “No,” she said, dropping her cigarette into the sink and picking up her jacket. “I’m broke. I need a hot meal.”
    By the time Sheila had walked to the cruiser, gone back to lock the door, and returned, the tips of her wet hair had frozen.
     She played with the frost and broke the ends. “Christ, it’s cold. I hope your car doesn’t break down.”
    “You need a better jacket.”
    “You want to buy it for me?”
    He did. That was the problem. He made a U and pulled out onto 42.
    “Where are we going?” she asked.
    “A place that serves good chili.”
    Webster drove north, past the town line, and then past the one after that. For a while, they didn’t talk in the car. She spent
     the time looking out the window at the lights in the houses. “They still have their Christmas trees up,” she mused.
    “They’ll be lit until the needles fall off. The wreaths will be up until Easter.”
    “How come?”
    “Long winter in Vermont.”
    “Think we’ve gone far enough?” she asked after a time, a note of sarcasm in her voice.
    “It’s the best place around.” A lie, and she knew it. “We can turn back if you want,” he offered.
    “What?” she asked, as if she hadn’t heard him.
    *    *    *
    The parking lot was full. Webster let Sheila off at the door. He watched as she left the car and straightened her shoulders.
    Webster searched for a spot, his frustration growing every second. He didn’t want to leave her alone. By the time he got inside,
     some guy would be hitting on her. He parked at the edge of an adjacent cornfield. Illegal, but so what? A farmer was going
     to come out and slash his tires? He jogged back to the restaurant.
    At first, he couldn’t spot her as he glanced from room to room.
    “She’s in a booth,” the guy behind the bar said. Webster gave a quick nod and headed for the red leatherette. The tables were
     highly varnished and slick to the touch, as if they weren’t entirely clean. The whole place smelled of cooked onions and cigarette
     smoke. Sheila had her jacket off. She was sitting sideways, a beer in front of her.
    She’s comfortable here, he thought.
    Three beers apiece and two half-empty chili bowls. Sheila was a delicate eater, and Webster had lost his appetite. Her skin
     was flushed, and the heat inside the restaurant had curled her hair at the ends. It softened her face.
    “It’s