Other times, the Buick was host to intense make-out sessions that lasted until the sun rose. ‘Could she have been a spy, after all?’ ‘Oh, she’s not a spy,’ Gerald answered, almost absently. He reappeared in street clothes, his cropped hair not even damp from the shower, fresh-faced and sweetsmelling. Saturday mornings at the Beck house were routine, coffee, newspaper, bagels, and Looney Toons in no particular order. If you are going that way, why not join us. I am. She’ll tell everyone soon, if only to gain herself some attention!” He cried under his breath. Perhaps, as you say, I do not really care—but I cannot do it. There was a Greyhound bus that she was overdue to ride.
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