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Show 251 When they got to Morocco, when he could clean the sand from his hair and from beneath his nails, they would talk. There would be time then. Philip looked at her, Julia, his wife; bent forward and kissed her lightly on the lips. A flower, she smiled at him. The Arabs, from the circle of light, waved. "Is . . . everything all right?" she asked softly. "Yes," he said, "it's time to eat." He took her arm. Together they returned to the others. He used his fingers, rather than the tongs, to place a chicken breast and wing on her plate. She smiled thanks. "Here comes the rain," said Paul. "Here comes our friend," said Jonathan, pointing at the big red hound dog which had entered the yard, stood for a moment at the edge of the circle of light, and was now cautiously approaching the grill. Philip could see a broken chain hanging at its neck. "He just wants something to eat," said Tia. Of course Julia had been right, they would have to go inside. Not only was it clearly going to rain, the wind had started to gust, and the others were only eyeing their food now, waiting for the official word, waiting for Philip to reverse himself. "Here boy, here boy," sang Paul, extending toward the uninvited guest a perfectly good chicken leg. All right, they would go inside. They would start over, he and Julia, put everything behind them and begin again. She was his wife. She was with him. In a few days they would be out of the desert, |