Cemetery Dance

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Can you believe it, Bill? I still can't. They told me almost twelve hours ago and I still can't believe it." "Believe it, sweet thing." William Smithback, Jr., unfolded his lanky limbs, stretched out on the living room couch, then draped one arm over his wife's shoulders. "Any more of that port?"

Nora filled his glass. He held it up to the light, admiring its garnet color. Cost him a hundred bucks — and well worth it. He sipped, exhaled. "You're a rising star at the museum. Just wait. In five years, they'll make you dean of science."

"Don't be silly."

"Nora, this is the third straight year of budget cuts — and here they've given your expedition a green light. That new boss of yours is no fool." Smithback nuzzled Nora's hair. After all this time, he still never failed to find its smell — a touch of cinnamon, a hint of juniper — arousing.

"Just think: next summer, we'll be back in Utah on a dig. That is, if you can get the time off."

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