He opened his bottom desk drawer and pulled the sliver of satin through his fingers. He had no reason for keeping the thing he decided as he shoved it back in the drawer.

Something his father used to say drifted through his mind. A man is pestering an idiot when he tries to fool himself.

Granger closed the drawer and headed down the hall. It was time he shook this interest before she became an obsession.

Meredith's appearance did not surprise him as he entered the county clerk's office. She wore a boxy sweater that had turkeys lined up along the border and sleeves. She had pulled her shoulder length hair back in a loose knot at the base of her neck so that the tiny turkeys dangling from her ears would show. Her skirt was too long and her shoes too practical to ever have been in fashion.

She looked ridiculous, he decided. Not a second-grader in sight and she still wore the uniform, like a clown who smeared on face paint even on his day off.

Stepping down from the chair she'd been using as a step stool, she watched him walk toward her as if she were watching a total stranger heading in her direction. He almost expected her to ask "May I help you?"

Granger tried to think of something to say. He had been hoping that she was three doors down thinking about him all morning, but from the looks of things, she had been working.

He tried to focus on the turkeys on her sweater. "I thought I'd go down to the truck stop for coffee and a burrito. You want anything?"

"Coffee would be nice." She reached for her purse. "The pot in the back is broken."

He almost told her he had a pot in his office, but somehow that seemed too personal.

She handed him fifty cents and he took it. From the beginning, she would never let him pay for anything. He did not even try to now. Men buy one another coffee or meals in a haphazard rotation, but women always want to keep everything even. Teachers were the worst. He had seen them get out their calculators and figure tax and tip down to the penny.

"With cream, no sugar. Right?"

She smiled. "Right."

He stood there for a few seconds, waiting for her to say more. When she remained silent, he walked back to his office, grabbed his keys off the corner of his desk, and his pager from the wall, then headed out into the cold. If a 911 call came in, which it rarely did, the pager would sound.

The gray day suited his mood.

The truck stop on the interstate was busy as always. You'd think people would settle down for one day of the year he thought, but the highway still flowed like a stream of ants. He circled the lot once before parking, taking note of the out-of-state license plates. Nothing looked amiss.

In ten minutes he headed back with two large coffees and a burrito that had been frozen less then an hour before. He didn't bother to stop at his office but went straight to hers.

He almost expected her to be gone, but she was still there, working at her desk in the back corner. When he set the coffee down, he noticed the sandwich she must have brought from home. Times were tight for her he bet, wishing he'd insisted on buying her coffee.

Without a word, he pulled up a chair and sat down at the corner of her desk. He unwrapped his burrito and pulled off the lid to his coffee without looking at her. If she did not like him staying long enough to eat, she was going to have to say something. Neither of them would get over their night together hiding in separate rooms. And it might only be a burrito and a sandwich, but they might as well have Thanksgiving lunch together.

"Think it will snow?" She opened her coffee and poured in both the creams he had brought, then looked around for something to stir with.

It occurred to him that he might be the only one trying to get over anything. She did not even look like she remembered their night together. Maybe she had forgotten it. Maybe she thought it was a dream. Who knew about women? He'd been seeing one of his Sunday ladies off and on for two years, and she still got mixed up and called him George now and then.

"I doubt we'll see snow. Might get rain later tonight." He tried to sound as casual as she did. Leaning back, he took a drink and frowned.

"Something wrong?"

"I can never get the coffee back here while it's still hot," he mumbled.

She pointed with the fork she had found in her desk drawer and had been using as a stir stick. "There's a microwave next to the sink over there." She pointed with her head toward the corner.

While he waited for his coffee to warm he said, "The only thing that seems to work around this place is you. The janitor told me the other day that if Cora Lee Wilson didn't move a little faster, he was going to have to start dusting her."

"I like to keep busy."

The microwave dinged and he reached for the thin cup. As he lifted his drink, the bottom of the cup caught the lip of the tray and splashed coffee across his hand.

Granger swore, tossed his cup in the sink, turned on the water, and plunged his right hand into the cold stream.

Meredith rushed to his side, pulling at his arm, trying to see if he was hurt. "Let me see where you're burned!"

"It's nothing," he said between clenched teeth. "Only a scald."

He rolled his sleeve up with one hand as water splashed over the cuff of his uniform.

She moved closer.

He jumped away, as if her touch burned deeper than the coffee.

Before she could react, he put the length of the desk between them. "It's not important." Granger fought to keep his voice calm. "There's no need for you to worry over it."

"Let me…" She reached toward him.

"No. Don't touch me."

Meredith stopped in midstride. She didn't say a word, but stood perfectly still, staring at him as though she had no idea what kind of creature he was.

Granger left the office in a hurry, no longer aware of his throbbing hand. He had told her it was nothing. Why did she have such a problem listening? What was wrong with the woman? Couldn't she understand that some people do not like to be fretted over, smothered with patting and pampering?

He rushed out the side door and walked to his car. Without a backward glance, he drove off the parking lot and headed toward the campus. There would be no one there today. He would cross through the streets of town until he calmed down and forgot about the way Meredith's face looked, all hurt and disappointed.

She was not his type. Not tall, not long-legged. Cluttery. Not what he liked. She was mothering. The kind who would tie strings around a man until he could not move.

After an hour he turned into the truck stop and told them the burrito was so good, he'd come back for a full meal. He took his time eating and visiting with the manager. When he returned to the courthouse, Meredith's blue Mustang was gone. He made himself finish his paperwork and, about nine, finally figured he was tired enough to get to sleep without thinking about her.

But despite his plans, he circled by her house on his way home. A fog had moved in, and he needed to see that she got home safely. With that piece of junk she drove it was always a question.

Every light in her place was on. The air, thick with rain, made her windows fuzzy against the dark wood of her house.

He pulled up and waited for ten minutes before he finally turned off the engine and climbed out of his car.

He knocked twice before she answered.

She opened the door and stepped back, letting him in without a word.

As always, her place was warm. He took a deep breath, wondering what he would say.

She walked to the center of the living room and crossed her arms over her funny-looking bedspread robe. "How's your hand?" she said calmly. He saw slippers with bunny rabbit heads peeking out from beneath her robe.

"Fine." He held up his left hand. "I drove around with it hanging out the window for a while." That was not what lie had come to say. He had no idea why he had come, but talking about his hand was definitely not it. He should have just circled Frankie's Bar and headed home as usual.

"I have some lotion that might help." She did not move to get it.

He didn't want to talk about his hand or lotion. She was not one of his Sunday girls; she deserved better. "Look, I'm sorry.

"So am I," she answered.

He smiled. "What the hell have you got to be sorry about, Meredith? I'm the one who swore and bolted out of your office." It made him mad that she was slicing off a piece of his "I'm sorry."

Walking to the bar, he deposited his hat and noticed the counter was as cluttered as ever. "I'm not some kind of pervert or anything." He shifted, not wanting to discuss the subject but knowing he had to. "I just don't like people touching me. I hate it when someone slaps me on the back or shakes hands longer than necessary." This was not a topic up for debate; it was just the way he had always been.

He faced her. She hadn't moved. The woman stood so still she must have grown roots.

"If you're waiting for some sad story of me being slapped around by my old man or something, you're out of luck. No deep-seated short circuit, just a preference. My parents are normal people. My dad's an accountant who might bore someone to death one day with his love of numbers, my mother keeps a spotless house and plays bridge."

"What about you touching others?" She tilted her head slightly.

He saw where she was headed. "I never offer a handshake first, but in my line of work there are times I have to handle folks." He thought of the night at the hospital when she had crumbled and he held her to keep her from falling.

"Look, Meredith, this is more than you probably care to know about me. I just came to say I'm sorry about blowing up like that in your office. I know you were only trying to help." He picked up his hat, absently dusting it off.