"When's that? You'll want to go, won't you?"

"It's . . ." Hall scanned for the date. "It was yesterday," he said, his voice dropping.

"Oh, Rick, I'm sorry. You missed it."

"I've been meaning to get back and visit the teachers, my old friends . . . what happened to the six years, Elaine? It doesn't feel like it's been that long," he said, shaking his head. "Listen to this: *Cla.s.s officers will be a.s.sisting Mr. Hutchins and Princ.i.p.al Jane Warden in contacting all graduates." Jim Harris is our cla.s.s officer, and he has my address.

I should have heard from them before this."

Elaine moved next to him and rubbed his shoulder, and he smiled at her.

"I feel cheated. It would have meant a lot to be able to be there. I haven't really kept in touch with some people that were good friends, either."

"It's two hundred kilometers away," Elaine said, trying to let him off his own hook.

"I could have written."

"I'm surprised your mom didn't let you know."

"So am I." The timer on the oven began ringing, signaling that dinner was ready, and they rose together to rescue it.

Cross Creek High was forgotten for the time.

But that night, after Elaine had fallen asleep beside him, Richard Hall lay in the darkness with the hum of the clock and the creaking of the walls, and thought about high school and the friends he had lost track of, and felt alone.

He eased out of bed without disturbing his wife, and moved quietly to the den. It was only nine-thirty in Cross Creek, and a good friend should be able to excuse a call at that hour.

Hall dug the small white address book out of the back recesses of the desk. Some of the entries, he saw, were very old.

Too old, in fact. The number he had for Jim Harris was no longer in service. The same was true when he tried calling his closest friend. The phone of Ruth, whom he had been both friend and boyfriend to , was answered by a sleepy man who said gruffly, "You got a wrong number." And the phone of a teacher who'd been more than a teacher rang thirty times without being answered.

Hall returned to bed, feeling both anger at himself and a deep depression. Something good that had been his had slipped away, and in the darkness it was easy to believe that it was forever beyond his grasp.

A few days later, Richard and Elaine arrive home from work close enough together to take the same elevator to the fifth floor.

"I'll bet dinner didn't cook itself tonight," she said.

He smiled. "I won't take that bet."

When they reached the apartment, she disappeared for a moment into the kitchen. "I was right," she said on her return.

"Want me to fix it tonight?"

"No. I want you to take me out."

"Suggestions?"

"The little lakeside restaurant outside of North Spring field."

"Our old summer rendezvous. The one where we had the wedding reception."

"That's the one."

"That's a good hour's drive awaya"and I'm not even sure I can find it again."

"You'd better be able to!"

Hall showed a mock grimace. "We'd better get going, then."

The Halls were generally silent while drivinga"Richard disliked being distracted. But as they neared the lake, Elaine turned away from watching the scenerya"it was growing too dark to see wella"and spoke.

"Do you think they still have our picture on the wall?"

"I don't see why not. Pictures of customers are the only decoration they use."

"It's been a while since we've been here. Maybe they move the old ones out every so often."

Hall pursed his lips. "Would you be angry if I couldn't remember the name of this place?"

"No, because you never remember anything. But I won't tell you what it isa"you'll have to work for it."

"The Beachcraft . . . the Beachhouse . . ."

"Something like that."

"Beachbelch . . ."

"Oh, come on!"

"Beachwood!" he said triumphantly.

"That's it."

"I can't claim any credita"just saw it on a sign back there. Isn't this the exit up here?"

"I think so."

They turned off the highway, headlights sweeping across the undisturbed gra.s.s-covered sandy mounds found everywhere near the lake. A kilometer farther on, the road turned to parallel the sh.o.r.e.

"It's not too far now," Elaine said.

"No."

They both watched the roadside ahead, expecting at any moment to see the sign, the building, lights, parked cars.

"That's odd," Hall said, frowning. "I was positive it was just a bit after the road turned."

The car bored through the lakeside night for a minute more, and then Richard slowed the car and pulled onto the shoulder. "We must have pa.s.sed it right at the beginning, when we were talking," he said as he made a wide U-turn. "It was never that well lit."

"But it sits right out in the opena"right on the sh.o.r.e.

We couldn't have missed it. I don't think we went far enough."

"I'm not going to drive all the way to Cleveland. If we didn't pa.s.s it, then we're on the wrong road."

They drove back the way they had come, confused.

"There's someone walking." Elaine said suddenly, as the headlights picked up the shape on the lake side of the road.

"Let's ask him."

Hall was already slowing down, and rolled down his window.

The rushing roar of the small breakers filled the car for the first time. "Sir?" he called. "Could you help us with directions?"

The man, carrying a fishing rod and tackle box, crossed the road slowly and came to Hall's window. He was at least sixty years old. "If I can."

"We're trying to find a restaurant called the Beachwood."

The old man pointed at the sands across the road. "Right there."

Richard looked where the old man was pointing. "There's nothing there."

"That's right. She burned down, mebbe six months ago- mebbe more. It it were day, you could see the pilings she sat on; that's all that's left."

"Oh, what a shame!" Elaine said.

They thanked the fisherman, then watched him fold back into the darkness behind them as they drove away.

"Home?" Hall asked.

"Nonsense. You owe me dinner."

"The Hearth?" he offered.

"That will be acceptable. Drive on, James."

"Yes, Madame," he said, but the heartiness was false. For the second time in a week, Richard Hall felt the tug of something lost.

The graphics department supervisor made his way slowly through the maze of drawing tables in the room, dropping off yellow paycheck envelopes as he went.

"Afternoon, Richard," he said as he reached Hall's table.

He riffled through the remaining checks. "How's your day going?"

"Pretty well."

The supervisor reached the end of the bundle of checks and started again at the top envelope, frowning.

"You didn't get your check early, did you?"

"No."

"And you weren't on an unpaid leave these last two weeks?"

"I wasn't on any kind of leave. I was right here."

"Well, your day just took a turn for the worse. There's no check here for you."

"Let me see."

"Don't you trust me?" It's not here."

"So what am I supposed to do?"

"Well, you'll have to go on down to payroll and get it straightened out."

Hall started to push back his chair, and the supervisor held up his hand. "Oh, not now. We need those charts for the taping this afternoon. Go down on your lunch hour," he said, and walked away to complete his rounds.

"I can't wait to tell you I quit," Hall said in a diplomatically hushed voice, glaring at his supervisor's receding back. He pulled the phone toward him, consulted a piece of paper in his wallet, and dialed.

"Concept Execution. May I help you?"

"Personnel."

"Thank you.: A new voice: "Mary Anders, Personnel. May I help you?"

"This is Richard Hall," Hall said, keeping his voice low.

"I submitted an application to you several weeks agoa"I wanted to make certain it was all in order."

"Yes, Mr. Hall, I remember. I'm glad you called. We recently reviewed your application when filling an opening, and found it is not yet complete. We still need a copy of your birth certificate and your educational transcripts."

"I sent for both the day I applied," Hall said. "The transcript is coming to you directlya"I can write and make sure it's been sent. If you recall, I explained that my original birth certificate is gone, and I'm trying to get a duplicate from the state. It should be here soon, and I'll see that you get it right away."

"Very good. By the way, we've also had a little difficulty tracking down one of the references you gave us. Would you confirm that we have the correct address? *Spark and Son, 213 High Streeta"*"

"Cross Creek, Pennsylvania," he finished for her. "That's correct. My supervisor was John Spark, the owner."

"Has the company moved or gone out of business, to your knowledge?"

"No, Spark and Son is kind of a town fixture. I can't imagine them moving. I can try to check on that, too, though."

When he had hung up, Hall turned to the artist working at the board to his right.

"Chris?"

"Yeah?" Chris Wood laid down his pen and looked at Hall.