If one thing hadn’t changed, it was his sense of unease. Years before he had seen a wall-hanging in Carol’s parent’s home, with the words: Goede Tijden Duren Nooit embroidered in Dutch. He had asked her what it meant in English. Her reply of: Good Times Don’t Last still stung.
These were hardly his best times, and it seemed every bit as if the promise of anything better had passed him by. It was the past that would not let him be. It followed him every waking hour into an obsession of what might have been if only he had been a little bolder and had not made that promise to her father. But then it had been the price he paid to be with her, to hear the music of her voice.
