Spring fancy

And this physical union, for all its simpleness-wholesomeness almost-was shattering.

'I love you,' he vowed when it ended.

'And I love you,' she answered. Then she cried.

* * *

They made a pact afterward that those would be the last tears of the day, that they'd be carefree, happy, and speak of no other people but themselves.

They spent the day going to Bemidji in Joseph's 1954 Cadillac pickup, a funereal gray monstrosity twenty-two feet long, with all its coffin rollers intact and sporting four doors, velour upholstery sumptuous enough to be used in any coffin and a roomy three feet of space behind the seat, from which the name 'flower car' had been derived: the space for carrying the funeral flowers.

But the vehicle was luxurious to a fault. During much of the five-hour ride, Winn lay sprawled across the seat with the soles of her feet hanging out the window and her head snuggled in Joseph's lap.

Five miles outside of Bemidji they followed directions on the auction-sale billboard and parked the Caddy beside the narrow gravel road lined with cars on both sides for a quarter mile in either direction. They spent the day meandering the farmyard amid farmers wearing bib overalls and wives with their pin curls tied up in blue handkerchiefs knotted above their foreheads.

Joseph and Winn kept their promise. They forgot about all the outside forces working against them and enjoyed only each other, holding hands, laughing, occasionally dipping behind a large piece of machinery to exchange kisses. The '41 Ford was a rusted, wheelless heap that wasn't worth bidding on in Joseph's estimation, but they loved listening to the silver-tongued auctioneer calling the sale with mercurial glibness.

'Heep – hayy – o – what – am – I – bid – for – this – little – beauty – of – an – automobile – do – I – hear – five – hundred – to – start – five – hundred – five – hundred – do – I – hear – five – hundred – hayy – oo – take – the – safety – pins – off – your – pockets – folks – do – I – hear – four – fifty – she's – a – racy – little – number – just – needs – a – little – dip – in – penetrating – oil – do – I – hear – four – fifty – they – don't – make – 'em – like – this – anymore – four – fifty – four – fifty – do – I – hear – four – fifty – to – start – all – right – we'll – do – this – the – hard – way – do – I – hear – four – hundred – to – start – f our – hundred – what – am – I – bid – fooooour – fooooour…'

Jo-Jo laughed. Winn joined him. It was utterly refreshing, holding hands in the sunshine, listening to the red- faced potbellied auctioneer plying his trade. Dogs and children scampered through the crowd, while housewives from neighboring farms poked and prodded amid the housewares on display, gleaning bits of the personal lives of those holding the sale from the oddments strewn across the yard: chairs, books, tables, pot-bellied stoves, doilies, pickling pots, carpet sweepers, bales of twine, dishes, hog feeders, treadle sewing machines, hay balers, scrolls of music from a roller piano and a claw-footed swivel organ stool with four amber marbles clutched in its feet.

'Imagine what we'll have strewn all over our yard when we're seventy years old and having an auction sale,' Winn mused.

She and Joseph sauntered along between a line of blossoming honeysuckle bushes and a set of eight oak spoke chairs. He swung their hands between them. 'Are we going to be seventy years old and having an auction sale?' He grinned down at her and kicked his feet out idly with each step.

'I said imagine.'

'Oh… imagine. Okay, let's see. There'll be a whole truckload of old beat-up tennis shoes and an even bigger one of rackets, and ragbags full of grungy sweat pants and sweat shirts with the arms cut off.'

'And the bellies,' she put in.

'And the bellies,' he seconded. 'And what else?'

'And a yard full of your vintage cars, Joseph, all in mint condition, and we'll get rich, rich, rich from them and spend our eighties cruising oceans in the height of luxury.'

'And there'll be a shed full of white plastic containers and white fluffy powder puffs.'

'Oh, almost forgot them.' She squinted an eye at the sun while peering up at him. 'But why a whole shed full?'

'Because I'll have used up a lot of Chanel No. 5, powdering you every night for fifty years.'

'Every night?'

'Every night.'

'But, Joseph, you'll be seventy years old!'

He grinned luridly. 'Imagine how good I'll be at it by then.' He leaned down and bit her nose.

'We are talking about powdering, aren't we?'

'That, too.'

'Quit talking dirty, old man, and tell me what else there'll be.'

'Oh, the cribs and high chairs from when our kids were babies.'

She jammed her hands into her hip pockets and confronted him belligerently. 'Joseph, we are not selling our children's furniture, so just put the idea out of your head!'

'But why, my little flower?'

She sauntered on saucily. 'Because we have our grandchildren coming to visit, silly. We'll have to leave the crib set up for them.'

'Oh, of course, you're right, Killer. But can I sell that set of china with your nickname on it?'

'What set of china? It's only one cup.'

'Well, I'm growing tired of the queer looks people give me when they see it sitting on the kitchen cabinet beside our liniment and Geritol. I always wonder if they think it belongs to me!'

They eyed each other, snickered, then snorted, then broke into gales of laughter while he tossed both arms around her and held her loosely, rocking back and forth at the sheer joy of enjoyment. Then he tugged her hand and sat down on one of the honorable-looking old kitchen chairs. 'Come here.' He pulled her down onto the chair next to his. Its seat was toasty warm from the sun beating down on it all afternoon. Around the honeysuckle hedge before them, bees buzzed and gathered pollen. Down the yard the auctioneer still called, his voice lifting to them faintly through the mellow butter yellow afternoon.

Joseph still held Winn's hand, sitting beside her on the heated wooden chair with an ankle draped casually across a knee.

'What?' she asked, mystified by his sudden shift of mood.

His rich brown eyes were partially hidden behind half-closed lids, their long lashes creating needlelike shadows upon his cheeks as he smiled at her and brushed a thumb lightly over the back of her hand.

'I just want to sit here a while and soak it in. And look at you.'

And that's what they did… for a full thirty minutes. They sat in the sun on hard rung-backed chairs, facing a row of fragrant bushes, and looked at each other. Holding hands. Rubbing thumbs. Remembering. Wishing.

When did I last study any person this well, Winn thought. When did I feel this rapport with another? When did it feel this right, just sharing the same sun with someone? What a stunning and good thing to do. How wise of Joseph to know the value of minutes like these.

She partook to her heart's content.

I love this man's face, hair, form. I love his gaiety and earthiness, his lack of artifice. I love the sound of his laughter, the turn of his brow, the line of his jaw. I love the common ground we find . The time I spend with him has a quality none other holds for me. We relate, Joseph and I. With him would life be this good, always?

Only Joseph's unsmiling lips moved as he spoke. 'You feel it, don't you?'

'Yes.' There was no need to clarify.

'We could have it, you and I, I think.'

'I think so, too, Joseph.'

'But we made a pact, didn't we?'

'Yes, we did.'

So he removed his eyes from her precious face and-still holding her hand-bent forward to rest his elbows on his knees. She had promised no more tears. She lifted her face to the sun, hoping it might sip away the faint dampness that had gathered on her lashes. Joseph's callused thumb rubbed her knuckles, and she wanted to sit like