He hovered. The paper ticket in his hand bore a seat assignment that, according to the ink, was this one. Compartment 4B. The Montrealer, northbound, Christmas week, 1986. Outside, a station bell rang once, then twice, the old brass voice of departure. The smell of the compartment was lemon oil and wool and a faint ghost of someone else's perfume from an earlier journey. Claire's white coat filled the narrow space with the soft authority of a weather system that had decided to sit down.
"This is four-B," he said carefully.
"It is," Claire agreed. She tipped her head. The platinum fall of her hair slid over one shoulder of the faux fur. "Are you lost, or are you declaring war?"
"I have a ticket."
"So do I." She opened the gold handbag with a soft click and produced a paper rectangle nearly identical to his. The handbag's clasp winked. Inside, he glimpsed the edge of a lipstick, a folded timetable, a Polaroid camera's strap. "Claire Whitmore. Fashion buyer. Bloomingdale's. Currently in possession of four-B and an unreasonable amount of white clothing."
He almost smiled again. "Samuel Drake. Furniture maker. Brooklyn. Currently in possession of four-B and an unreasonable amount of embarrassment."