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‘What do you mean?’ ‘Which way to your place?’ She looked ahead then said, ‘Left, and follow the road to Broadale. Why?’ ‘We’ve got to go somewhere. And that’s the safest I can think off. Unless you want to go to the police.’ ‘No! No police. That’s what started this. Left again at that signpost!’ We were now out of the town and I had pushed the speed up hoping I wouldn’t meet anything on the bends. Turning the corner she had indicated we were in a typical country lane, just wide enough for one vehicle, with passing places every hundred yards or so. A quarter of a mile more then she said, ‘There. That caravan.’ With a screech of brakes I stopped. ‘That’s where you live?’ ‘It’s all we could afford after the house went.’ Sitting in the field between rows of apple trees and an ancient hedge the van was an old, broken down, rusting, touring model that I would have thought was best left to rot. Dismayed I looked around. ‘Not much good as a defensive position if, as they probably will,. Smiling. "Feels exactly like that."Stopped at a traffic light, I turned to look at her. She was in her delightful 'knocking about' mode, jeans and sweatshirt against the cool fall air, her hair done up in a whimsical pony tail that she'd fished out the back of a baseball cap.I've seen Jo both ways: formal dress for her solo concert and this. Both were visions. Both stirred me in ways that no woman ever had before."You're staring again, Stoney," she said. Her smile told me what her words didn't say."It's just that what you're wearing is a good look for you." I look like a frump." Hardly. Somebody else may wear that and look frumpy. You, however, look cute, whimsical and totally charming." You, sir, are crazy." Giggle. "And I love you this way." She has the sweetest look when she's satisfied with herself."Look, redhead," I said. "I could be freakin' Shakespeare and I could never come up with the words to explain the spectrum of feelings I get when you're around. And believe me ....
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