She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. She exhaled, feeling the tension drain from her shoulders and arms. It was not only Leonardo who had instilled in her this distrust of men. She never had been much of a looker, but she had stopped worrying about such things long ago. She had, by the magic of recollection, set the picture of the typhoon between herself and her table companions: the terrible rollers thundering on the white shore, the deafening bellow of the wind, the bending and snapping palms, the thatches of the native huts scattering inland, the blur of sand dust, and those two outcasts defying the elements. ‘It is nothing. She felt she must fly before it and could no longer do so. Perhaps I deceived you about it. Before I met you I never met any one whom I felt I could love, but you have discovered depths in my own nature I had scarcely suspected. They hissed me!” “Beasts!” he muttered. I feel years younger, a man again. I miss her a lot.
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