Chapter 12: Dinner with Adelaide

Kirby and Amy got out of the Land Cruiser at Adelaide’s front door, and Katherine departed on her mission to refill the SUV’s tank. The house, as viewed from the front step, was impressive. Most of the main hall of the building was two stories, but parts of it, the towers, rose to three stories. Stretching away to either side of the entrance were roses that would be the pride of any botanical garden lucky enough to possess them.

“Ahemmm.” Amy cleared her throat from behind him. “You’re blocking the door, your majesty.”

Her words shook him from his reverie. “Um… Do I ring the bell or what?”

“Normally, yes.” She pushed past him. “But since I’m here and I still sometimes live here, we can walk right on in.” She opened an ornate oaken door so large that it would not have looked out of place on a cathedral. “Luuuuucy,” she shouted playfully, “I’m home!” Her voice echoed in the grand entry hall.

From down the hall, from the direction of the library, came the donkey-braying sound of Desi Arnaz laughing as Ricky Ricardo, followed by a pitch-perfect imitation, “Ju got some splaynin’ to do!”

“That was Suzanne,” she said in response to the uncertain look he gave her. “She’s really a hoot.”

“The maid from the library? The one who brought us tea?”

“Yeah, we’ve been doing that bit—on and off—since I was fifteen and first moved in here,” she explained.

“You lived here when you were fifteen? Was that because of your apprenticeship?”

“Nah.” She waved both hands in a motion that sought to cancel the idea. “My mom kicked me out and Adelaide, being awesome, took me in.”

His mind rapidly began formulating follow-up questions to find out more about his new acquaintance, but her next words entirely derailed that train of thought. “It’s nearly six, dude, and while I’d love to stand here all night and discuss my troubled youth, you’ve got to get ready for your dinner with Miss Adelaide.”

He stopped. “My what?”

“Yeah, I probably should have mentioned that earlier. Miss Adelaide wants to have a quiet dinner with you at seven in the dining room.”

“But why?” He was genuinely puzzled. Since he had arrived at Adelaide’s house six days earlier, he had only seen her once each day, when she had checked in on him and sometimes tried to explain aspects of the weird things that were currently knocking his life for a loop. Dinner seemed so ...social. For all her kindness, her graciousness, the idea of socializing with her, while not unpleasant, was a strange thought to entertain. Although Adelaide projected neither stand-offishness, nor snobbery, and was never condescending, he always felt like she had multiple black belts and Ph.D.’s in the social graces and he was lucky not to crap his pants in public.

“Well, she’s probably going to want to discuss your future with you.”

“My future, but—?”

“Look, dude, she’s been working on my future for the past twenty years—and I was just a charity case before I became her apprentice. You saved her life.” She produced a theatrically sinister chuckle. “Just imagine how much she’s gonna want to help you fix your future!”

“But I didn’t sign up for—”

“No one ever does, dude,” she sympathized. “Oh, and you’re expected to dress for dinner. There should be a suit hanging in your closet downstairs. Have fun!” With that, she began to nimbly climb the tremendously impressive staircase beneath the stupendously impressive chandelier.

“Wait,” he said. “Twenty years? You said you moved in when you were fifteen? You’re thirty-five?” Nothing about Amy suggested that she was five years his senior. He stopped himself from commenting further, however, concerned that telling an Asian woman it was hard to guess her age might be a cliché, a stereotype, or some other faux pas into which he did not want to step.

Still climbing the stairs, she raised her voice, so it echoed around the foyer. “And the Nobel Prize for mathematics goes to...Jeffrey Kirby, for that impressive piece of addition.”

“Yeah. Funny,” he shot back. “And they don’t even give out a Nobel Prize for math!”

He heard her voice echoing from the upstairs landing. “Whatever, dude.”

ͽʘͼ

In the safe room’s walk-in closet, he found the suit Amy had mentioned. It was brown and the label indicated it was from France. This thing must have cost— No. All of this, everything to do with Adelaide and her money, is something I need to be able to take in stride. Let her spend whatever she wants to spend. I can’t keep trying to judge this stuff by my financial standards. That way lies madness. He put the suit back in the closet. Turning, he managed two steps before the collective conscience of every Oklahoma public school teacher—his own included—shouted into his mind with outraged frugality. That suit cost at least two months’ take-home pay!

By a quarter to seven, Kirby had showered and, using the new electric beard trimmer he found in an unopened box on the counter, had shaved his head and trimmed his beard down from its full-summertime bushy magnificence to a more modest length. By five before the hour, he had dressed in his new brown suit, which fit magnificently, and brown Oxford shoes, which pinched slightly in places, but were made of buttery-soft leather. He stepped out of the elevator to find one of the maids, the shorter woman with the dark complexion, waiting for him.

“Right this way,” she said.

It was so very much like a scene from a movie. He asked himself for the umpteenth time, Nobody actually lives like this, right? Regardless, he followed. At the entry hall, she led him left, instead of right, away from the library, and into a... What is this room?

“Miss Adelaide will join you shortly. Would you like anything while you wait?” the maid asked.

His mouth felt dry, so he asked for some ice water, and the servant withdrew. A drawing room? This is a freaking drawing room! It was so stiff, so formal. The furniture, gorgeous chairs and a long settee that looked like something Queen Victoria might once have placed her royal bum upon, was so impressively off-putting that he was scared to sit down. The curtains framing the windows, like the sofa, might once have graced Buckingham Palace. Through them he saw one of the groundskeepers using the remaining daylight to prune a shrub.

“Your water, sir,” said the maid from behind him.

He turned to find her extending a glass to him. “Thank you, ma’am.” She curtsied and made her exit. Curtsied? I’m never going to get used to this.

Adelaide entered the room. She wore an emerald dress of some material he did not feel qualified to identify; it looked velvety. Her hair shone its usual silvery-blonde and hung thick and straight, almost to her shoulders. Her necklace and earrings, looked understated, but he knew those were more likely rubies than garnets draped around her throat and dangling from her earlobes. And while her eyes sported crow’s feet and her face and neck could not be mistaken for those of a twentysomething—or even a fortysomething—woman, she was enticing, nonetheless.

“Jeffrey!” she exclaimed as if she were both surprised and overjoyed to see him in her drawing room. “You look dashing! That suit becomes you!”

“Thank you, Adelaide, not just for the compliment, but for the suit. If it looks good, you’re only complimenting yourself.”

“Oh, pish! Once we had your measurements, Katherine simply sent them to Francesca in Paris and her people stitched it together. All I said was ‘brown’ and they did the rest. Are you hungry? I’ve been told that dinner is ready.”

“Wait, you had a suit sewn in Paris and flown—” He stopped. When he started again, he said, “I don’t know how the world works for you rich people. You flabbergast me.”

“Well,” she admitted, “this wasn’t so much a ‘rich person thing’. It had more to do with that other thing you and I have discussed, my Art. Even the very wealthy can’t usually get that quick a turnaround on bespoke suits from Paris.”

“So, this woman in Paris is your, what, sorcery buddy? And she put in a rush order for you?”

“A friend of a dear old friend.”

“Cool,” he said with a nonchalance he did not feel. “And, yes, I am somewhat hungry.”

Across the hall from the drawing room, a set of double doors led into the dining room. He counted eighteen chairs around the dining table, eight on each side, one each at the head and foot. Only the place at the head of the table and the one to its immediate right had been set. The table linens were exquisitely white, with what might have been handmade lace edging. Incongruously, however, where he had expected to find plates and saucers of fine china and eight or ten various silver utensils, he found plates that were red and square and a pair of red lacquered chopsticks.

He held out the chair at the head of the table for her and she sat. He sat beside her.

“I hope you don’t mind, but when Katherine went to your apartment to collect your wallet and telephone, I asked her to take a peek in your kitchen to see what sort of food you might enjoy. She said you seemed very fond of Chinese.”

Kirby cringed inwardly at the thought of the sour-faced secretary seeing the multitudes of empty—and half-empty—Chinese food take-out containers in his fridge and in his unemptied kitchen garbage. The only other things likely in his fridge were milk, beer, ham, and pickle relish. His apartment was hardly an exemplar of healthy, well-adjusted bachelor living. “Did she, ah, have anything else to say about my apartment?”

“Don’t worry, Jeffrey,” she reassured him, “Katherine is the soul of discretion.”

He felt more embarrassed at the state in which strangers had seen his apartment than reassured. “So... Dinner? I see chopsticks.”

“Yes, dinner. Suzanne spent almost two years in Taiwan, and when I heard of your preference for far eastern cuisine, I asked her to fill in for the cook tonight.”

The ruddy-faced maid, one of the two who had seen to his needs during his stay in the safe room, carried in the first course, a salad. Adelaide dove in nimbly with her chopsticks and made a face that encouraged him to do the same. He tried, but the vegetables, slick with dressing, dodged his attempts to grasp them with the chopsticks. Neither spoke as they ate, and Kirby managed to force the blunt end of the utensil through several pieces of cucumber and slowly convey them to his mouth.

Adelaide’s hand disappeared under the table and, moments later, the maid entered and set their places with fork, knife, and spoon. “You should have told me you weren’t comfortable with chopsticks. I can barely use them myself. This will be so much easier.”

Yeah. Sure you can’t. Dissemble much? He knew she was just trying to keep him from feeling uncomfortable, to be a good host. Of course she assumed I could use chopsticks. My apartment is littered with Chinese foot take-out containers. “It’s these big, clumsy fingers. I’ve tried to learn several times and I’ve practiced a lot, but I just don’t have the knack.”

“ Some things are just not meant to be. How is your salad?”

“I’m enjoying it. The cucumbers are fresh and the carrots…” He trailed off. “Look, I’m sure the dinner will be wonderful, Adelaide, but I’m a bit anxious about dining here with you. I know small talk is polite and all, but is there a chance we could skip straight to the meat of the conversation?”

“Very well.” She reached beneath the table again. One maid came and took away their salads and other brought in grilled meats on bamboo skewers as an appetizer.

Kirby guessed Adelaide had a button mounted under the table to summon the servants at the appropriate times. “While this isn’t exactly what I meant when I said, ‘skip straight to the meat,’ it does look delicious.”

Adelaide smiled and picked up one of the skewers. “Jeffrey, tell me all about yourself.” She nibbled a morsel of meat from the skewer and put on an expression that said, ‘I’m all ears.’

“I’d be surprised if there was anything about me that you didn’t already know,” he countered, taking a bite from his own skewer and chewing, awaiting her response.

This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

“Well, it’s true that I do have resources that allow me to access information, but I have tried to respect your privacy.”

He kept looking at her, took another bite, chewed, swallowed, and waited.

“I have respected your privacy—up to a point. I brought you into my home, however, and I do have a responsibility to keep those under my roof safe. Of course, I looked to see if you had a criminal record.”

“And you ran a credit check.” He had no idea what prompted him to say that, but even as the words came out of his mouth, he knew he was not wrong.

“Yes, that too. It’s as good an indicator of someone’s character as anything else. You have been working to pay what you owe, and that says positive things about you.”

“What else did you find?”

“A drunken bar fight in college. You pleaded ‘no contest’ and received a suspended sentence. Some minor traffic violations. If I had found anything serious, I’d have moved you out of my home as quickly as possible.”

“Your finances are terrible, however,” she continued. "Your student loans eat up much of your paycheck. Oklahoma was not the place to move to if you wanted to live above the poverty line as a public-school teacher.”

“True enough.” He scratched at his beard. “I just had to put some space between me and Houston after the divorce.”

“The divorce you obtained when you were twenty-five from Tina Galliand, to whom you were married two years.”

“So much for respecting my privacy.” He tried not to sound as bitter as bringing up the divorce made him feel.

“It was all in the credit report, Jeffrey. It’s your life’s story told in money.”

“Hmph! And what is my life story, as revealed in my criminal record and my credit report?”

“You’re probably a good man. That’s what it tells me.” She reached over and patted his hand reassuringly. “You once did something stupid in a bar. You got married too young and it didn’t work. You owe more money on student loans than you are likely to repay before you retire, given your teacher’s salary and your current rate of repayment. You aren’t particularly good with money. The balances on your two credit cards tell me that. You’ve paid some of your bills late, but you’re a man who works hard to pay his own way, to pay what he owes. When I add that to what you did on that dark street, stepping between me and a thing you should never have had to see—even in your nightmares—it tells me that you are someone in whom it would behoove me—”

“‘Behoove’? Did you just use ‘behoove’ in a sentence?”

“Someone in whom it would behoove me to take an interest,” she finished, ignoring the jibe.

“Because you think I saved your life and because you pay what you owe?”

“You definitely saved my life and, yes, I pay what I owe.”

“What was that?” He pointed at her for emphasis.

“What?”

“The way you said that, ‘I pay what I owe.’” He pointed again, then tapped his index finger on the table. “You said it like that the other day—exactly like that—and I thought it was peculiar then.”

“What about it?”

“It reminds me of when my mom used to drag me to the Catholic church for mass when I was a kid. After you’d do the thing where you’d shake hands and say, ‘peace be with you,’ the other person would respond ‘and also with you’. The way you say ‘I pay what I owe’ has that same ritualized feeling to it. Why?”

“Very well,” she acquiesced, “if we must talk about me before we talk more about you, I’ll explain. But I must warn you. It’s about sorcery. Are you sure you want to hear?” She added with a wry smile. “Perhaps, if you don’t hear the answer, you could somehow convince yourself that sorcery doesn’t really exist after all. Isn’t that what you’d prefer?”

“Yeah, actually, I would. But that’s not really an option now, is it?”

“No.” She glanced down at his black hand and Kirby saw an expression of sympathy cross her features. “It’s not.”

“Well, then, hit me with it, sister.”

“Putting it as simply as I am able, I belong to a group of sorceresses, an association. We help and support one another, we share what we know, and we train new members in the Art. We are a guild. There are other groups who call themselves by other names. The members of my guild have a principle that we use to guide our interactions with one another, with other groups, and with everyone and everything in our lives. It isn’t a collective responsibility, ‘we pay what we owe.’ Each one of us must pay what each one of us owes.”

“And if one of you doesn’t pay what she owes?”

“It is a very serious transgression and might be cause for expulsion. It sometimes falls to the Guild to extract restitution or, very rarely, retribution.”

“Harsh.”

“It can be quite harsh, but if you have to face the likes of a triad of Abyssal Wolves, for example, you want people who honor their obligations at your back, or you may as well be alone.”

“A triad?”

She nodded. “Yes, they always come in multiples of three.”

“Why?”

“It’s complicated.”

He tilted his head and raised his eyebrows expectantly. “Simplify.”

“Very well. The Abyss exists on a black plane. It is a bottomless hole in that plane that leads into blackest nothingness. If you remember your geometry, it takes three points to define a plane. The simplest possible way to define a hole on that plane also requires three points; the Abyss is a triangle. Its servitors, or whatever the Abyssal Wolves might be, always come in groups of three. I cannot guarantee that the shape of the Abyss is the reason the Wolves come in threes, but that is the most widely accepted theory among practitioners at this time.”

“Okay. We both know I have no idea about the why’s and wherefores of Abysses and their wolves, but I can live with what you’ve said because you’ve at least tried to explain it. So, where is the plane of the Abyss? And why does it sound like you’re capitalizing the ‘A’ in Abyss every time you say it?”

Adelaide moved her hand under the table again and the servants came to take away the plates on which the appetizers had arrived. “You know, don’t you, that at some point during this meal we are going to speak about you?”

“I know that’s what you want, Adelaide, and I intend to oblige you, but only after I get in a few questions of my own. Who knows when I’ll get another chance?”

She nodded as if that seemed sensible enough, but they both remained silent as their dinner was brought in covered dishes, which appeared to Kirby like the serving plates you might find in an upscale Chinese restaurant. Lifting the lids revealed rice almost as white as the table linens, steamed broccoli, and slices of fried meat in a brown sauce that smelled of citrus and spice.

“Tangerine beef is Suzanne’s specialty,” Adelaide told him. It smelled mouthwateringly special, and they each loaded their square, red plates from the serving dishes.

“So, what’s the Abyss?” he asked, before she could take a bite.

She paused with her fork halfway to her lips. “I’m hungry, so the short version is that the Abyss, like the Maze, and the Rock, and the Conflagration, the Island, and a number of others, is a place that exists outside of our plane of reality, in what you might call a different dimension. It is an archetype as much as it is an actual physical—or metaphysical—place. The Abyss and the others are places of great power that practitioners of my art are able to sometimes use as an energy source for our Art.”

They allowed each other to eat for a while without further interruption until he put his fork down. “How old are you?”

Adelaide did not bat an eye. “I’m not going to tell you.”

“I saw your signed 1855 first edition of Leaves of Grass in the library. It was inscribed to you by Walt-freaking-Whitman himself and he died in 1892.” He had another sip of water and added more quietly, “I looked it up.”

She dabbed her mouth with the napkin before returning it to her lap. “In point of fact, it was inscribed to my grandmother, for whom I am named. And I’m still not going to tell you how old I am.”

Kirby quickly tried to do the math to figure out an age range for her, based on estimated age ranges for her mother and grandmother, but gave up just as quickly. Mental math was not one of his talents. He would have to try that later, when he had pen and paper.

“Okay. But can your sorcery prolong the lifespan? Can it keep you looking and feeling younger than you might actually be? Is it possible that the vivacious and attractive woman sitting before me is actually older than she appears?”

“Yes. Yes. Thank you. And yes.” She smiled. “But I’m still not telling you how old I am. And now it’s my turn to ask the questions.” She cast an appraising look at him. “Katherine’s observations of your apartment and financial records indicate that you have spent nearly every summer in your former hometown, Houston. This is the first summer you have remained in Oklahoma since you arrived. You appear to have few connections outside of your work. Your job seems to be your main source of life satisfaction. Even your hobbies are passive, solitary—reading, watching movies—except for table tennis, but your interest in that has seen a precipitous decline as well.” They studied each other’s reaction for a long moment. “Well, how did I do?”

“That sounds like maybe a little more than you could get from a criminal background check and a credit history.”

“I told Katherine not to pry too deeply, but she is very good at making inferences from data she finds online. I threw in a few of my own hunches, too. Is it accurate?”

“Close enough,” he admitted. “I can’t argue with any of the particulars.”

“Would you care to add anything to clarify the picture?”

“I guess I could fill in a few of the gaps. For one, I used to go back to Houston every summer and over the Christmas holidays to work for a friend of mine who does contracting. He paid me under the table, so you won’t find that on my credit report or financial statements.”

“And your services weren’t needed by your friend, the contractor, this summer? Was there a falling out? Or did you decide you needed some time for leisure?”

“None of the above.” A cloud passed over his face. “And I’d prefer not to talk about it.”

“Fine. I don’t mean to pry overmuch, but is there anything else you’d care to share with me about yourself? I’d like to hear. I’m interested in Jeffrey Kirby.”

“Well, let’s see, I’m an amateur environmentalist. I volunteer to pick up trash at parks. I plant trees sometimes on the weekend with a conservation group, but I’m not really a member. I drive a Prius and—” The reaction on her face made him stop. “What? What’s that look for?”

“Ah, I did want to talk to you about that.” Her expression indicated that his sensibilities might soon be upset. “I understand your need for independence and that you would prefer to drive your own vehicle, but would you mind terribly driving one of my cars until this situation we find ourselves in is resolved? You’ll be far safer.”

“Ok. Sure. But what if you never figure out who came at you?”

“In that case, Jeffrey, I will turn your car into the best-protected Prius on earth.”

“Okay. What else do you want to know?”

“Only what you’d like to tell me. What about your family, your childhood?”

“There’s not much to tell. Mom was a schoolteacher, elementary school, and she raised me by herself after my dad got sent to jail when I was six and she divorced him. He was a crook; he defrauded some businesses and stole a lot of money. Mom and I lived on the extreme low end of middle class in Houston. She died when I was fourteen. Lupus. They let the son of a bitch—my dad—out of jail early because he convinced them that he had been rehabilitated and that he needed to be out to raise me. So, I spent three years with him until he got put away again, for cheating somebody else out of their money. I went to college with the help of a partial scholarship and lots of student loans.”

“Why Classical Studies?”

“Oh, that just came easy to me. I had a high school Latin teacher—a brilliant lady—who instilled a love of it in me.”

“Yes,” Adelaide agreed, “the right teacher can make every bit of difference between loving a thing and hating it. Do your high school students love Literature? Are you that teacher?”

His head hung sheepishly. “I’d like to be, but I don’t think I’m there yet. My Latin teacher, Mrs. Wagner, spoke five languages and was on the Canadian Olympic team when she was young. She was great at everything she did. I’m not, but I’d be okay at being great at just the one thing, probably teaching.”

“Do you know how utterly scrumptious you sound right now? We old ladies just eat that sort of thing up with a spoon.” She gestured with the coffee spoon. Kirby had declined the after-dinner coffee the maid had served, but the Adelaide seemed to relish hers.

“Well, after mugging my way through a day of eleventh-grade English, I never feel terribly noble when the final bell rings.”

“And so many things are like that, even sorcery.”

“This, I’ve got to hear. Educate me, Adelaide, on the moral travails of sorcery.”

She laughed abruptly. “There’s no time for anything like a complete accounting—I have an appointment in not too long. The reasons I learned sorcery—”

“Did you have a teacher?”

“I had several. But the reasons I undertook to learn sorcery, initially, have little bearing on my day-to-day life. These days, I am a politician, not the academic I had hoped to become. I am the leader of the guild I mentioned to you. I administrate. I rule on disputes. And I only occasionally find the time for research or teaching.”

“So, those wolves were more likely about the politics of sorcery than a personal enemy?”

“At this point I don’t even know that.” This admission came with a hint of frustration that Kirby felt sure was an understatement. “It is more likely that the attempt was political than personal. I have lived long enough to either make friends of my personal enemies or to have seen them rendered irrelevant.”

“And how many of them have you ‘rendered irrelevant’?”

“A lady never tells.” The expression on her face left no room for a follow-up question on the topic.

“I hope the question didn’t offend.”

“It did not. I have done what I needed to protect myself and those I love—and I will do so any time the need arises. Would you like a job?”

He continued to stare at her like she was still talking as his brain caught and deciphered her last five words. The shift in conversation was so abrupt that it took him a few moments.

“You aren’t working this summer, so I asked if you would like a job. It’s only part-time, and I can pay you under the table, like your friend, and you should make triple that in tips at the club.”

Again, he took a few moments to respond. “Well, just to be clear, I am not, N-O-T not, going to have to take my clothes off and shake my ass onstage as part of this part-time job at your ‘club,’ am I?” He kept a perfectly straight face as he asked—even when he made the air quotes around ‘club’—before making with a smile and a wink.

Adelaide laughed heartily. She tried to bring herself under control and speak but failed, erupting with laughter again. She mastered herself finally and took a sip of water. “No.” Tears streaming from her eyes. “No, no, no. Ha! Oh! Oh, no. My dear, thank you for that! That image is priceless and will be with me for the rest of my days!” She wiped the tears of laughter from her eyes. “Noooo,” she exhaled. “I will put you in the hands of my manager and she will find a position commensurate with your—,” and she broke off, her laughter bursting forth again .

“You’re thinking about me naked again, aren’t you?”

One of her hands covered her mouth and the other clutched her ribs and she shook for a moment as she tried to stifle the resurgent laughter. She stood suddenly, forcing herself to calmness with three measured exhalations. She released herself. “I find that I like you, Jeffrey. Truly I do. As for the job, let’s just see what we can come up with. If it doesn’t work, no hard feelings. I need to go and get ready, but we can talk tomorrow. Take whichever car you want to borrow from the garage, and I’ll tell Amy to meet you at your new place after lunch, say two o’clock. She’ll bring you to the club.”

“That sounds fine, I guess,” he responded. “But there was another thing I wanted to ask you about.”

“Well, if you’re quick. I do have an appointment,” she reminded him.

“Oh?” he asked, his curiosity piqued. “At this hour? Is this a sorcery appointment or a hot date?” It wasn’t what he had intended to ask about, but the question just popped out.

“The answer to that, Jeffrey, falls squarely into the category of ‘None of Jeffrey’s Business’, but, since we are becoming such fast friends, I’ll give you a wink,” and she winked, then bit her lower lip, “and reveal that I’ve got a hot date.” She waggled her eyebrows up and down when she said the worlds ‘hot date,’ obliterating any possibility of subtlety.

“Who’s the lucky fellow?” he asked lamely, his quiver of quips empty. “Anybody I know?”

Adelaide put on a grin that could only be described as sardonic. “I’m the lucky one. Do you know them? Well, she cooked your dinner. And the kitchen isn’t the only place where she really knows how to cook. Have you met Suzanne yet?” She seemed to enjoy the surprised look he was only semi-successful at keeping from his face. “And I will thank you for that, too, Jeffrey. It’s been too long since I’ve had the opportunity to shock anyone with my wickedly Sapphic ways. Goodnight, I’ve enjoyed our dinner! See you tomorrow at the club.”

She was out of the dining room and away before Kirby could even respond. He took a sip of water. I did not see that coming. He reflected for a moment and had another sip. But when have I ever seen what was coming before it was too late?