Primary Storm by Brendan DuBois Page A

to a classical station out of Boston that never broadcast news or political commentary, and with that comfort, I ate well.
    After a quick wash of the dishes, I felt better than I had in days. I went out to the entranceway to get my coat, and then to walk across the way up to the Lafayette House, to get the morning papers, and then ---
    Something was on the floor, by the door. An envelope.
    I picked it up. An interview request, no doubt, from some enterprising news media type who had snuck down my snowy driveway. It made me think about Felix and his direct way of dealing with the news media. I thought about wandering up to the driveway with my eight-millimeter rifle strapped to my back, and decided that was going against my lawyer's advice to keep what snipers call a low profile.
    I opened up the envelope, and a heavy piece of stationery was inside, folded over in threes. I undid it and there were handwritten words penned there.
    A clean, well-lit place with books and companions and soft chairs. What more can anyone want?
    At eleven?
    The sentiment and the handwriting were familiar. I could not believe it. I could not. But there it was.
    I carefully put the paper back in the envelope, went upstairs, and placed the missive in a desk drawer. Saw the time. Just past 10:00 A.M.
    I sat down in my chair, looked about at my collection of books, until I saw the ones I was looking for, old and unopened for so many years. There were four of them, large and flat and on the bottom of the farthest bookshelf.
    I suppose I should have gone over there and pulled them free, to reminisce about what was and what might have been, but instead, I waited.
    As the time passed, as the time always did.
    Just before eleven --- and after successfully driving past the lonely remnants of the media mob that had greeted me yesterday --- I was in downtown Tyler, the small collection of office buildings and stores about a five-minute drive west of Tyler Beach. The beach is just a village precinct within the town of Tyler, and the two have always had a rocky relationship, like that of two brothers, one a barhopping ne'er-do-well, the other a sober, churchgoing type. But while the beach has much more to offer than the town proper, the town has one advantage the beach doesn't: a bookstore.
    It's off Lafayette Road, on a small side street called Water Street, and, oddly enough, is called Water Street Books. It's in a two-story brick building, with small green canvas awnings. I walked in. There was a large area in the center, lined with bookshelves after bookshelves, and before me was a display with a current New York Times bestseller. I walked past that collection of books, with the eyes of Mona Lisa following me, and to the rear of the store, which had padded chairs and coffee tables.
    There was a small table with fresh-brewed coffee and tea and some snacks that operated on the honor system, and I poured myself a cup of coffee, dropped a dollar bill in an overflowing straw basket, started browsing. It was, as described, a clean, well-lit place with books and companions and soft chairs.
    I found her at the farthest end of the bookstore, curled up with a coffee table book about Shaker furniture. She was sitting in a large easy chair, windows behind her overlooking a small park, and she had on designer jeans and a dull red turtleneck sweater. A matching red knit cap was pulled over her head, her blond hair tucked up underneath, and as I approached, she looked up and smiled right through me.
    "Lewis," she said. "Barbara."
    She stood up and I automatically came forward, and we exchanged hugs, the touch and scent bringing back old college-aged memories, memories I didn't even know I had anymore. She kissed me on the cheek and I returned the favor, and then we sat down, holding hands, just for the briefest and most delicate of moments.
    "You look great," I said.
    "Right."
    "No, I mean it. You look like you just left the Student Union, heading out to McGrath's Pub."
    She