Later that evening, Dr. Hobson was sipping a glass of wine, legs tucked up under her on the sofa, working on her monthly report. She frowned with annoyance when the doorbell rang. Hard enough to avoid distractions with these bloody reports, this better be worth the trouble.
She peeked through the peephole and yanked the door open immediately.
"I brought you a bottle of wine to replace the one I drank up the other night." He held it out.
She took it from him. "Is that all?"
"Ah, no. There were one or two other things . . ." He was studying the ground.
"Then you'd better come in, Robbie. Do you want to sit?"
He shook his head. "No. I'm not all that sure I'm welcome here." She started to speak, but he cut her off. "Laura, I have to apologize for . . . well, for everything. I ran off like you had the plague but it was really me that had the problem. I felt like such a horrible person for putting my needs above the memory of my wife, and I blamed you for breaking down my resistance. Really, I should be thanking you, you and James, for caring enough about me to take this great risk."
At last he looked at her. "Today . . . well, I feel like I've just been on tour with the bloody Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, you know? Here lies Ebeneezer Lewis, died alone and unhappy because he was too afraid to accept love."
He continued. "I don't want another wife, and I don't want a girlfriend. But I am grateful you gave me what Alice Spooner called 'the chance to make love, not just to have it.' I needed that."
He took a deep breath and met her eyes squarely. Laura could read it in his eyes just as clearly as if he had said it: I'll probably need it again.
But all he said was, "So, I'm sorry . . . and thanks for all you've done."
She bit her lip to help her ignore the blurriness in her eyes. "Was there anything else you needed, that you came for tonight?" She moved closer to him, so close their bodies touched.
Oh, yes, there definitely was.