The Pact [antikvár]

-'tV' t ¦ ír. i, Now November 1997 T ¦^here was nothing left to say. He covered her body with his, and as she put her arms around him she could picture him in all his incarnations: age five, and still blond; age eleven, sprouting; age thirteen, vwth the hands of a man. The moon rolled, sloe-eyed in the night sky; and she breathed in the scent of his skin. 'I love you,' she said. He kissed her so gently she wondered if she had imagined it. She pulled back slightly, to look into his eyes. And then there was a shot. Although there had never been a standing reservation made, the rear comer table of the Happy Family Chinese restaurant was always saved on Friday nights for the Hartes and the Golds, who had been coming there for as long as anyone could remember. Years ago, they had brought the children, littering the crowded nook with high chairs and diaper bags until it was nearly impossible for the waiters to maneuver the steaming platters of food onto the table. Now, it was just the four of them, blustering in one by one at six o'clock and gravitating close as if, together, they exerted some kind of magnetic puU. James Harte had been first to arrive. He'd been operating that afternoon and had finished surprisingly early. He picked up the chopsticks in front of him, slipped them from their paper packet, and cradled them between his fingers Üke surgical instruments. 'Hi,' Melanie Gold said, suddenly across from him. 'I guess I'm early.' 'No,' James answered. 'Everyone else is late.'