By Robert James Waller
Date: 8 July 1998

untitled

"Jesus," he said softly. All of the feelings, all of the searching and
reflecting, a lifetime of feeling and searching and reflecting, came 
together at that moment. And he fell in love with Francesca Johnson, 
farmer's wife, of Madison County, Iowa, long ago from Naples. 

"I mean" - his voice was a little shaky, a little rough - "if you don't
mind my boldness, you look stunning. Make-'em-run-around-the-block-
howling-in-agony stunning.  I'm serious.  You're bigtime elegant, 
Francesca, in the purest sense of that word."

His admiration was genuine, she could tell.  She reveled in it, bathed
in it, let it swirl over her and into the pores of her skin like soft 
oil from the hands of some diety somewhere who had deserted her years
ago and had now returned. 

And, in the catch of that moment, she fell in love with Robert Kincaid,
photographer-writer, from Bellingham, Washington, who drove an old 
pickup truck named Harry.