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Show It did matter, but he wasn't sure how. He let it go. The sun was huge and red now on the western horizon; as soon as it touched the sand the truck would stop. The thought of it made Philip feel foolish with hunger. He picked up the pan of chicken and started for the door. Julia stopped him. "You'll want these," she said grinning, placing in the tray a pair of oversized tongs. "Thanks." "And Philip . . . " "Yeah?" "You are terrific in bed when you're awake. Really." "Thanks." Outside it seemed cooler than before. Philip attributed this to the time of the day and was grateful; used the tongs to load the chicken onto the grill. "Looks good," said Paul. "Looks like rain," said Jonathan. Philip followed the ex-monk's eyes, east, to the sky beyond the cemetery. True, it was dark, much darker than before, the color now of spilled wine along the rim of the earth. Dust. "Rain," said Jonathan, "heaven-sent to end the forty years." Philip could feel the movement of blood through the veins which fed his face. Did it show? "How long," he heard himself asking Jonathan, "were you a monk?" "Twelve long but beautiful years." |
