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into the broad warmth of his cashmere-covered arms. She felt impossibly small there, fragile, like a child.
    She stopped crying as quickly as she’d begun, and peeked up at him.
    “It’s all right. It’s over,” she said, sniffling, and even trying to laugh. She remained in his hug, however, until he finally felt self-conscious and let down his arms so she could stand free. “You must think I’m nuts,” she said.
    “I don’t know…I don’t know what to think yet,” he admitted. “Is anything wrong?”
    “Not now,” she said, looking around her. She spotted the raincoat on the floor and reached for it. “Where can I hang this?” she said, holding it by an edge. “And where’s the mop? I’ll clean up this mess I made.”
    “I’ll do it,” he said, but didn’t move.
    “I was alone,” she explained. The tears in her eyes had dried up. They shone clear, rather tin-colored in the candlelight. “First the radio went off,” she said. “There’s no phone; it was shut off Labor Day. Then the storm got worse. Then the lightning began. Then the lights went out. I was scared,” she concluded.
    “Ah!” he said, suddenly understanding what she was doing there—though he didn’t really understand at all. Scared of what? he wanted to ask: this hurl and burl of the elements that had kept him irritated all night long, unable to concentrate on his work, unable to read, or listen to music on the cassette deck. “You were alone?”
    “I guess I needed company,” she said brightly, then felt embarrassed, and began to blush.
    “Your jeans are all wet,” he said. She was soaked from her knees down.
    “It’s all right. I can come in, can’t I?”
    “Yes. Sure. But you shouldn’t stay wet.”
    “You mean I’ll drip on everything?”
    “I’ll get you something to wear.” He took the slicker from her and hung it in the smaller of the two bathrooms. He thought he’d find something for her to change into, but what? Everything he owned was far too big; Dan’s clothing was even larger. Wait! What about those tan corduroys that boy had left here last summer? Dan’s little friend.
    He found the pants in the guest room closet, shook them out, sized them up. When he returned to the foyer, she had found the mop and was mopping up the floor.
    “It looked so bright in here, from my place,” she said, still explaining. “I don’t know. So hospitable. You’re sure I’m not intruding?”
    “It’s all the candles,” he explained. “Dan buys them by the gross. Here, these are clean. I don’t know who they belong to. Change and come warm up by the fire.”
    “You mean I can stay?”
    He suddenly felt as though he were in a Pinter play where the delivery boy stops by, has a cup of tea, and doesn’t leave for thirty years.
    “Go change,” he said, pointing to the guest room. “I’ll get you something warm to drink.”
    Even the corduroys were too large, he saw when she came out; they hung on her, but she’d belted them tightly around her small waist, and they looked sort of charming, like rather thick harem bloomers.
    “I won’t forget this,” she said.
    He handed her a hot rum toddy he’d made. She sipped at it cautiously.
    “Not too fast,” he warned. “It’s strong.”
    He led her into the big room and offered her his seat, but she remained standing by the fireplace, looking around, warming her legs, sipping her drink. Her hair was in one thick, long braid tonight. It glowed in the candle- and firelight. Her skin was so clear and bright it was like the skin on a pale-colored plum at its August ripest.
    “I’m so glad you weren’t working or anything,” she said, then squatted down on the floor between the fireplace and where he sat. “I would have hated myself for interrupting you.”
    “Too much noise to work,” he said. She certainly made herself at home quickly enough. Dear Abby, he thought, my neighbor’s daughter came to visit me one stormy night and now she won’t go home. What