“You’ll love it,” he insisted.

“I’ll hate it.”

They drove up to Vermont, where they strapped heavy knapsacks onto their backs. They walked through the muggy forest for what seemed like a millennium until, mercifully, they arrived at their secluded camping site. Laura cleaned herself off in the nearby stream, unrolled her sleeping bag, and climbed in.

Then David began to join her.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked. “I thought you had your own sleeping bag.”

“I do. But we have to cuddle for warmth.”

“Body heat?”

“Exactly.”

“One problem.”

“Oh?”

“The thermometer reads ninety-five degrees.”

“That warm?”

She nodded.

David thought a moment. “Then I suggest we sleep au naturel.”

Their lovemaking was fierce, frightening in its intensity, and afterward, they lay naked in each other’s arms.

“Wow!” David managed, finally beginning to catch his breath.

“What?”

“I just love being in touch with nature. I don’t know, Laura, these surroundings . . . they make me feel so alive, so at one with nature, so . . .”

“Horny?”

“Bingo.”

“I’m becoming a bit of a nature lover myself,” Laura pronounced.

“I noticed. But you have to be more careful.”

“Why?”

“That screaming of yours, woman. You’ll scare our furry friends to death.”

“You love it.”

“True.”

“Besides, you were hardly Marcel Marceau.”

“Meaning?”

“That was some moose call. I kept waiting for a female to emerge from the bushes.”

“No such luck. I guess you’ll have to do.”

“Vicious, David.” She reached into her crumpled jeans and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

David groaned. “Are you going to smoke those?”

“No. I’m going to feed the animals.”

“Smokey Bear says people start forest fires.”

“I’ll be careful.”

“Listen, Laura, I don’t mind when you smoke back home—”

“Bullshit.”

“Okay, bullshit. But out here in the wilds, we have to think of our furry friends.”

“Why do you hate my smoking so much?”

David shrugged. “Aside from the fact that it’s disgusting, terrible for your health, and a habit without one redeeming quality, I guess I just don’t like French-kissing an ashtray.”

“But I have an oral fixation.”

“I know. It’s one of the reasons I love you.”

“Pervert. You should be used to smoke by now. You lived with T.C. for four years. And what about Clip? The two of them are always smoking those stinking cigars.”

“Yeah, but I rarely French-kiss those two. I mean, maybe T.C. every once in a while . . .”

“I suspected as much.”

“Plus T.C. could never survive without his cigars. They’re a part of him, a personality appendage so to speak. And Clip is both seventy years old and my boss. We don’t make it a habit of criticizing our boss. Besides, I like it when Clip smokes.”

“Why?”

“The Victory Cigar. It means we’re about to win a game.”

She wrapped her arms around him. “My cigarette is kind of like a Victory Cigarette.”

“Oh?”

“Clip likes to smoke them after a game. I like to smoke them after an especially powerful org—”

“Keep it clean, Ayars.”

“Sorry.”

David sat up. “Do you want to know the real reason I want you to quit?”

She shook her head.

He held her, his hand gently stroking her hair. “Because I don’t want anything bad to happen to you,” he said softly. “And because I want to be with you forever.”

She looked at him hopefully. “Do you mean that?”

“I love you, Laura. I love you more than you can ever know.”

Two months later, she had quit. She had not even thought about smoking since—until now.

A loud knock on the door jarred her back to the present.

“T.C.?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s open.”

He came through the doorway, his face drawn. “Some civilization. No McDonald’s. No Roy Rogers.”

“Anything new?”

Laura watched T.C. shake his head, his movements oddly jittery.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Nothing. I guess I’m just a little tired and hungry.”

“Order some room service.”

“In a little while.”

“Why wait? If you’re hungry—”

The phone rang. T.C. quickly reached over Laura and grabbed the receiver. “Hello?”

Laura tried to read his expression, but T.C. turned away, his face hunched over the receiver like a bookie’s at a pay phone. Minutes passed before T.C. finally said, “Right. I’m on my way.”

“What’s going on?”

“I’ll be back in a little while, Laura.”

“Where are you going? Who was that on the phone?”

He started toward the door. “Just a potential lead. I’ll call you if it turns into anything.”

“I’m going with you.”

“No, I need you here. Someone else might call.”

She grabbed her purse. “The receptionist can take a message.”

“Not good enough.”

“What do you mean? I can’t do any good here.”

“And you certainly can’t do anything but get in my way out there. Look, Laura, I want to get all the facts. I don’t want to have to worry about coddling—”

“Coddling?” she interrupted. “That’s a lot of bullshit, T.C., and you know it.”

“Will you let me finish? One of these Crocodile Dundees sees the new bride and clams up or softens his words.”

“Then I’ll stay in the car.”

“Just listen to me a second. I’m expecting an important call in a little while and I need you here to answer it. I’ll call you as soon as I know something. I promise.”

“But—”

He shook his head and hurried out the door. Laura did not chase him. In Boston, she would never have tolerated such brusque and patronizing treatment by any man or woman. But this was not Boston. T.C. was David’s closest, most trusted friend. If anyone could bring him back safely, T.C. was the man.