“
She stepped up to the door and knocked.
The television voice cut off, replaced by the sound of pattering activity. “Just a moment,” said a male voice.
The door opened. It was Martin, aka Theodore the gardener, in pajama pants and no top, a towel hanging around his neck. Unclothed, he had the kind of build that made her want to say, “Yow.” She was glad she was wearing her favorite dress.
“Trick or treat?” she said.
“What?”
“Sorry to interrupt.” She indicated the towel. “You’re working out?”
“Miss, uh, Erstwhile, right? Yes, hello. No, I just couldn’t find my shirt. Are you lost?”
“No, I was walking and I…I don’t suppose you could give me the Knicks-Pacers score?”
Martin stared blankly for a moment, then looking around as if trying to spy out eavesdroppers, pulled her inside and shut the door behind her.
“You could hear that?”
“The TV? Yes, a little, and I saw the light through your window.”
“Blasted paper-thin curtains.” He grimaced and ran his fingers through his hair. “You are going to catch me at everything bad, aren’t you? Let’s hope you’re not her spy. She’ll have my balls for stew.”
“Who, Mrs. Wattlesbrook?”
“Yes, in whose presence I signed a dozen nondisclosure and proper-behavior and first-child and I don’t know what other kinds of promises, in one of which I swore to keep any modern thingies out of sight of the guests.”
“Tell me that Wattlesbrook isn’t her real name.”
“It is, actually.”
“Oh, no,” she said with a laugh in her voice.
“Oh, yes.” He sat on the edge of his bed. “I take it, then, you’re not spying for her? Good. Yes, dear Mrs. Wattlesbrook, descended from the noble water buffalo. It’s a decent job, though. Best pay for being a gardener I’ve ever had.” He met her eyes. “I’d hate to lose it, Miss Erstwhile.”
“I’m not going to tattletale,” she said in tired big-sister tones. “And you can’t call me Miss Erstwhile when you have a towel around your neck. To real people I’m Jane.”
“I’m still Martin.
”
”