by Lewis A. Beach The river had never seemed so idyllic, but it was their togetherness that gave it its grace. They’d finally joined each other––in the place they’d long talked about, and were smoking, while perched on a ledge nestled in a small inlet––away from the river’s flow. They’d swam from the bridge, through the stream at the bottom of Rapini field and into the wooded grove that protected the inlet from the current, and provided a sheltered pond. It was a good place to rest-up when the weather wasn’t good, and with the English spring barely in bloom, it made for a sensible destination. But that day it was warm and still. Their cigarettes––that they’d concealed in plastic sandwich bags, and tucked into the lining of their swimming shorts––had gotten a little damp. But it didn’t matter; they still lit. Sam had only arrived that morning, from Norway, but both he and Guy had envisioned the outing for almost a year. It’s fancy kept them warm throughout the autumn and winter; nothing could keep them …