Читать книгу The Unmarried Bride - Emma Goldrick, Emma Goldrick - Страница 5

ON THE way back from the bathroom that evening, Abby passed by Selby’s door and heard a familiar ‘tap, tap, tap.’ There was a light under the door and inside a typewriter was being used. She knew the sound well.

‘Selby Farnsworth. If you aren’t Selby Jones, the author of my favourite hero, I’ll be darned,’ she whispered. ‘You’ve come all the way up here to write a book. There’s no doubt about it. Is there no limit to your cleverness? You’re a lawyer and a writer, perhaps something else as well? I wonder what?’

Quietly, so as not to give the whole show away, she stole back to her own room and walked in, closing the door behind her. Cleo was already coiled up on the throw-rug by the bed. Abby had to climb over the dog to get into the bed and once she was in she knew she would have difficulty getting to sleep. It was too early for her to go to bed! Besides, there were too many secrets to be analysed. Nevertheless, in the middle of her argument, sleep came quietly over her and in just a few seconds she was out.

It was the noise that woke her up. What was it? Someone was crying just outside her door. Someone who was trying to smother the noise. Cleo was awake as Abby pulled herself out of bed, awake and shuffling to the door to sniff at whatever might be outside. Haunts? Abby asked herself. Of course not! That was one thing which Uncle Teddy would have never allowed in his house.

She unlocked her door and pulled it open. Little Harry Farnsworth was sitting on the top step of the stairs, nestled hard up against the newel post of the mahogany banister. He was crying, a soft, muted cry as if he wanted to ease his agony without letting the world know he was hurting.

After a moment’s consideration, Abby padded over to the head of the stairs and sat down beside him. He stirred a little—just enough to give her sitting space. She put her arm around him. His head lifted away from the newel post and leaned on her. A soft, sweet head was resting on her breast, crying softly.

‘What’s the matter, Harry?’ she murmured.

‘I don’t know,’ the boy said. ‘I was dreaming about—about—well, you wouldn’t care about that. You don’t have to sit with me. You could go back to bed. I’m all right.’ There was a large amount of pride in his voice, more than his age or size should have contained.

‘I’m sure you are,’ Abby said. She applied a little pressure and pulled the boy against her until the whole length of him was resting against her body. The sobbing gave way to intermittent tears. ‘Do you want me to call your dad?’

‘No!’ said the boy sharply. ‘Not that! He’d be awful mad.’

The crying had stopped completely. He rubbed his nose with one hand and poked at his eyes with the knuckles of the other, still leaning against her. She could feel the muscles in his body relax. Silence played across the room. Nothing but the sound of the storm could be heard.

As the wall clock struck the quarter-hour he lifted his head out of the warm, soft nest between her breasts.

‘You know, you’re awful soft. My daddy is hard, like iron. I think my mommy used to be soft like you.’

Wordlessly, Abby stroked his shoulder and brushed his hair out of his eyes. She maintained the pressure that kept him against her and waited. By the next striking of the quarter-hour, he was asleep. His features were marked by tears but there was a little smile on his face.

‘What do I do now?’ Abby muttered.

She almost jumped out of her skin when a deep voice behind her said, ‘Now you pick him up and put him back in bed.’

She turned around and looked over her shoulder. Selby Farnsworth, dressed in the bottom half of an old pair of pyjamas, was staring down at her, brooding over the pair of them. She looked back at him for a moment or two and then sighed. ‘I can’t—he’s too heavy for me.’

He stepped down a stair or two to position himself in front of them and reached down gently to pick up his son. As his arm encircled the child the back of his wrists touched and then caressed her breasts. Abby took a deep audible breath as all her systems snapped to attention, and then he was gone.

She trailed after him into the boy’s room. He put the child down gently, arranged the blankets over him, checked the window to make sure it was shut and then tiptoed out into the hall. Abby took a moment to lean over the bed and kiss Harry’s forehead. He stirred uneasily, which made her back up hurriedly.

‘Go’nite, Mommy,’ Harry murmured.

Abby moved quietly out into the hall, and in the darkness ran into Selby. His arms came around her, perhaps to steady her, or perhaps—oh, stop that, she told herself angrily, stop romanticising.

‘Does he always have nightmares like this?’ she whispered.

‘No,’ he said bitterly. ‘I almost had him over these dreams. Thanks for your help.’

To be totally honest, it didn’t sound as if he really meant any thanks at all. It was almost as if he was embarrassed to have his son be the centre of such notice, Abby told herself. And he’d said dreams, not nightmares.

‘I couldn’t just leave him there, crying,’ she snapped, just barely remembering to keep her voice down. ‘Any woman would have gone to comfort him.’

‘That’s what you think,’ he said disgustedly. ‘His mother wouldn’t.’ And he marched smartly down the hall towards his own room.

As she stood watching him move away from her, her hands doubled into fists. ‘I could give you such a whack,’ she whispered. But the lessons on ladylike behaviour which her mother had drilled into her as a child all came to mind and so, with only some mild swearing under her breath, she returned to her room.

Sleep, this time, did not come quietly, or gently. She finally fell asleep and wrestled with her own terrible dream, which lasted until morning. In that dream she was chasing Selby Farnsworth with a big stick and she finally caught him. But before she had the satisfaction of whacking him the dream came to a halt, and then went back to its beginning, like a recorded tape whose end had been spliced to its start to make a circle. She never did get to whack him—hip and thigh, as the Bible would have it. It was frustrating, it was tiring and it was totally unsatisfactory!

Abby opened one eye and looked out of the window at a weak sun trying to rise over the hills of Martha’s Vineyard island. Time to get up, she grumbled to herself. Her sheets were all in twisted skeins around her legs. She had to unwind them before she could set a foot on the floor.

If I don’t get up and make a real breakfast he’s going to make some of those peanut butter and jelly sandwiches he threatened me with last night. And that, my girl, is something up with which you shall not put! she told herself.

She swung herself up out of the bed, sleepily staggered over to the window, raised the blind and threw the window open. There was a fine wind coming in from the east, bringing with it the flavour of sea and shore and all the world of fishing. Gulls haunted the stern of one of the passenger ferries which ploughed the waters north of them from Woods Hole to Martha’s Vineyard and back again. Here and back and the birds followed along, having learned long ago that the best of food came off the stern of one of these vessels after the breakfast or dinner meals.

Resolving to get going, Abby looked around her, found her robe and slippers, gathered up her underclothes, and padded down to the ornate bathroom. There was not a sign of life from either of the other two bedrooms. Which is just as well, she told herself. The last thing I need is to have two strange men following me around while I’m showering.

So she went as quietly as possible into the bathroom and started the shower. The quick response of the electric generator soon gave her hot water with enough to spare. She soaked under the pleasure of it and then was reminded by a movement outside the bathroom door that her time was fast fleeing. She stepped out, dried off, climbed into her undies and slipped into a pair of blue jeans and a light yellow blouse. Her hair was more than she could handle so she left it the way it was. Raggedy Ann, she told herself and laughed. Raggedy Ann looking for Raggedy Andy. Stop this, Abigail, she chided herself. There is more to this whole family set-up than you know. Something is seriously wrong and you may not wish to be dragged into this whole mess. But a little voice in her subconscious whispered that if there was trouble ahead little Abby Spencer would be among the first to offer to help. She blamed her mother for this affliction of hers—offering to help. Along with the ladylike lessons, her mother had been, and still was, big on simple kindness and the proverbial helping hand.

She picked up her night things and went out into the hall again. Her dog was waiting with her yellow tennis ball clenched between her teeth.

‘Come on, girl,’ she said softly. ‘Downstairs. Breakfast. If you don’t put that darn ball away you won’t eat.’

Breakfast—that was the magic word. The dog lifted up her ears, hiked herself up to her feet and raced, if that was a word that could be used about Cleo, to the head of the stairs. She turned, looking for praise. Her play-ball dropped out of her mouth and went merrily bouncing down the dark stairs. They both could hear the ball bouncing at least partway down the staircase. They made their way down, with Abby holding tightly on to the banister on one side, and Cleo’s collar on the other. Neither she nor Cleo could find the yellow ball. Cleo sat down at the foot of the stairs and mourned.

‘I didn’t throw it,’ Abby said. ‘Don’t expect me to go fetch it for you. Come on.’

Her ‘woman’s best friend’ offered a little growl. Abby stamped her foot on the dull linoleum. Complaining was acceptable; threatening was prohibited. They both knew the rules, but Cleo was standing up for her own principles.

‘Breakfast,’ Abby announced heartily. Cleo wavered. Caught between principle and practicality, the dog gave up and followed her mistress down the hall. It had been almost twenty-four hours since Cleo had eaten and any word having to do with food was welcome and eagerly anticipated.

Breakfast? Abby asked herself as she led the way down to the kitchen. What in the world have we got to eat?

There had been something nagging her all night, despite the bad dream with Selby Farnsworth. She had brought enough food for herself to last ten days. There certainly wasn’t enough to last for three weeks, especially for three people. Unless there was some way to call for a boat, the food was going to be getting scarce after a few days. But she’d keep her secret for at least a couple of days.

There was a propane refrigerator in the far corner of the kitchen, fed through a flexible tube that ran out to the back of the house. When she had first come in the day before, she had packed all her perishables in it, fired the cooling pilot light and then had gone off and forgotten it.

Now she opened the door carefully. A blast of cold air struck her face. Inventory: two dozen eggs, a rasher of bacon, sausages galore, bread for toasting. That last was a problem. The only way she could make toast was over the flames in the fireplace, and that fire was now only a glowing ember or two. After a ten-minute struggle Abby gave up.

She had been a girl scout, but as she recalled she had only been awarded the badge for sewing, and had to get her mother to sew it on for her. While she pondered on the problem of toast, Harry wandered into the kitchen. He looked hungry and just a little intimidated by the presence of Cleo. Abby smiled at him because he was really just a little boy. He was in the process of growing in his adult teeth; there were a few missing from the line up. There has to be a way to get on his good side, she told herself. With all of the training I’ve had there must be something I can try.

‘Are you gonna cook breakfast?’ Harry asked. ‘Have you fed the dog? She won’t eat me, will she?’

‘Cleo?’ Abby answered. ‘My dog never eats my friends. She only eats people who aren’t my friends. She and I have an agreement on that subject. But I’m glad you reminded me. I haven’t fed her this morning and she probably is hungry.’

Harry shrugged his shoulders, stubbed his toe on a worn section of the linoleum and looked up at her with a wicked little gleam in his eyes. ‘Could I be a friend of yours? Can I help feed her?’

‘Well,’ Abby drawled it out, ‘perhaps, maybe; it would depend.’

‘Depend on what?’

‘Well, it depends on how you treat me. Friends treat friends nicely. You haven’t been that nice to me so far. Are you going to be friendly to me? We have to work through the friend part first and then we’ll talk about you feeding her.’

‘I don’t mind,’ the boy said. ‘I ain’t scared of that.’ He had both hands behind his back and he was very slowly moving across the carpet towards her, very, very slowly.

Cleo watched him carefully. As he got close enough to be within her attack range she came up to a half-crouch and growled a little. Harry came to a complete stop and the look he gave to Abby was one of, You told me it was OK, so what did I do wrong? Abby smiled and reached out to pat the old dog on the head. ‘That’s enough, Cleo. That’s enough. This is a friend. Now, Harry, hold out one hand in front of her nose. Don’t touch her.’

The boy gulped and then carefully, as if he were guarding a treasure, moved his left hand from behind his back. It was still clutched in a fist and he extended it slowly in the dog’s direction. Cleo came all the way to her feet, looked up at her mistress and then back at the boy. She took a couple of sniffs at the proffered hand and after a moment the old collie licked the knuckles.

‘There you are,’ Abby said. ‘You have been identified as a friend of mine, which makes you a friend of Cleo’s. OK?’

‘I suppose you and me can be friends. Are you gonna cook breakfast or feed Cleo first?’

‘I suppose I could start our breakfast if you’ll go upstairs to my bedroom and get her bag of food. Once you get it down here, you can put some in a bowl for her along with some water. You will have helped to feed her at that point and you will have become one of Cleo’s best friends. She loves anyone who feeds her. The quickest way to Cleo’s heart is through her stomach.’

She set the bread aside while Harry clumped up the stairs and she reached for the eggs. The propane stove chirped on without a bit of trouble. In a moment or two she constructed a fine bunch of fried eggs, sunny side up. Just enough, she thought to herself, and turned around with the platter in both hands, moving in the direction of the kitchen table.

She hadn’t heard Harry come back down the stairs so she was startled when she saw a different male face sitting at the breakfast table, beaming at her and her dish of eggs. She stopped with one foot still in the air. ‘I didn’t hear you come in,’ she said suspiciously.

‘No,’ he admitted. There was a very insincere grin on his face. ‘No, I was afraid that if I made a noise you might be surprised and drop something. My, that looks nice.’

‘If she dropped the plate then we don’t get anything nice to eat,’ the boy said as he came back into the kitchen with the bag of dog food.

‘I’ve got to teach you better, boy,’ his father grumbled. ‘Don’t play Abraham Lincoln. You don’t have to be all that honest.’

‘Yes, he does,’ Abby insisted. ‘And, besides, after he’s finished feeding the dog, there’s just enough food here for Harry and me.’

She put the platter down in front of her own space, shovelled an egg and a sausage on to the boy’s plate and put it at the open space at the table. Harry was very busily filling the bowls Abby had found with dog food and water. He was looking very serious about this task and was very gratified when Cleo shouldered him out of the way to get at her food. All of the good food smells had been driving her crazy and she was hungry!

‘I guess that means that she likes me, huh?’ It sounded to Abby as if Harry Farnsworth needed someone to approve of his actions. He needed to be praised.

‘Yes. I guess that means that you are one of the top people on Cleo’s list of friends and you did that very well. I didn’t realise that the bag was so big. How did you get it down the stairs?’

‘I just bumped it down the stairs,’ Harry semi-bragged. He had done something good and she had noticed. She was someone he liked for some reason. The fact that she had a dog was a big point in her favour, but he liked her anyway.

‘Then why don’t you sit down and eat your breakfast while it’s hot?’ She turned around and went back to the frying-pan, which was still sizzling with bacon. By the time she had settled that and had returned to the table again, all the rest of the food had disappeared.

‘Which one of you?’ she said, eyeing them both disgustedly. ‘Which one of you ate my breakfast?’

‘Not me,’ the boy said. ‘I wouldn’t do a thing like that.’ He ducked his head so that he would not be looking at his father.

‘Well,’ Selby said, ‘if he’s innocent, and you’re innocent, I guess I’m the guilty party.’

‘You’ve got a nerve,’ she growled at him. ‘You threaten me with a peanut butter sandwich and now you expect me to cook something deliciously delightful for your breakfast?’

‘That is exactly what I hoped for,’ he said, and made no attempt to hide the twinkle in those big brown eyes.

‘I have a good mind,’ she told him, her green eyes sparking, ‘to dispossess you right this minute. You’ve got enough nerve to—’

‘Watch the bacon,’ Harry yelled at them both. Abby wheeled around. She had spooned the rest of the bacon to the top of the chopping-board to let it drain off. While the pair of them were arguing, Cleo had slithered by them, flat on her stomach, and then leaped up to seize the bacon and the paper on which it was drying.

Dog food was fine for those rainy days when there was nothing around to scrounge, but the aroma of bacon was a siren call to Cleo. If there was bacon around and no one was watching, then she would make a try for it. The dog was making no effort to share. She saw it as only right that she be entitled to anything she could snatch—and bacon was fair game. Four big gulps and it was all gone. Abby, hands on hips, turned to search the two innocent faces. ‘Why is it,’ she asked the world around her, ‘that I’m beginning to feel put upon?’ She could feel the colour of anger as it flashed up into her cheeks. Anger, and something else she had learned in her high school drama club, was helping her put colour in her face. How to cry without even trying. And Abby Spencer was very good at it. Very good indeed. She was counting on it to make a very big impression.

She managed to pull one chair away from the table. Her tall figure collapsed into it for a moment, and then she straightened her back and closed her eyes. Think sadness, she commanded. Scenes flashed in front of her eyes, but she dispatched them one after another. Finally she found the one she wanted. She pictured herself standing on the hillside on Grandfer’s farm, on the warm autumn day when her pony had broken its leg and had to be put down.

The scene solidified. She could remember every sound, every wind-blown smell, the soft muttering of the sheep. And then the sound of the gun. Abby held that sound close to her heart. The tears began. Solemn, quiet tears oozing up from under her eyelids, and running down her cheeks, one or two at a time, and then in full flood.

‘Now look what you done,’ the boy said fiercely.

‘Pay it no mind,’ his father said. ‘Women cry for no reason at all.’

‘She had a reason,’ the boy snapped. ‘I’ve told you before. This is a nice one, and you made her cry. Why?’

‘Maybe you’re right, Harry. I didn’t think she’d cry. Let me see if I can stop the tears.’

‘You’d better,’ the boy threatened.

Abby, doing her best to keep the tears rolling, was startled to hear the boy crying as well. The kitchen door slammed as Harry ran out, leaving her alone with Selby. Not exactly what I planned, Abby told herself. She threw in a couple of additional sobs.

There was movement, and a strong arm came around her shoulders. She cracked one eyelid. Selby was kneeling at her side, trying to get a big handkerchief out of his pocket. ‘I don’t understand,’ he murmured. ‘A girl as big as you are, crying?’

I’ll show you big, she thought as she turned up the sobs and slumped over, resting all of her hundred and thirty-five-pound weight against him. It took but a moment for her to realise she had made a terrible mistake. He liked having her lean on him. He especially liked the softness of her full breast, falling haphazardly into the cup of his hand.

‘Don’t.’ She struggled to sit up, but the cold intervention of the world around her ruined her comfort. With a little gasp she fell back into his arms. ‘Don’t,’ she repeated in a soft, pleading whisper.

‘Don’t?’ He pulled her closer, gently massaging her breast, and then said, ‘Oh. You mean this?’ His right hand pulled her up, his left hand continued to gently support her breast.

‘I mean don’t!’ This time indignantly. She wrenched herself away from him. His right hand came loose. His left hand seemed to twitch for a moment, and then he helped her to stand. She was still quivering. She clutched her fists and thrust them down along the seams of her jeans. Her whole body shook, until the muscle tension brought her under control.

‘Don’t you ever touch me like that again,’ she spat.

He held his hand up before him, still flexing the fingers. ‘It was delightful,’ he announced.

‘I didn’t enjoy it,’ she lied. She might have said more, but Harry came back into the room. There was a moment or two of silence then Harry said,

‘I had enough breakfast for the day. Now what am I gonna do?’

His father looked at him seriously, as if he was debating the subject. ‘Well,’ Selby said, ‘I know what I’ve got to do. I’ve got to redo those pages you used to colour on yesterday. Maybe Abby can think of something for you both to do.’

‘Why should I be the one to come up with entertainment ideas? I have work to do too, you know. Very important work!’

Selby looked over at her, and there was a tug at the corner of his mouth, as if he couldn’t resist laughing, but had to. ‘Yes. But we have a small problem,’ he said. ‘Someone has to entertain Harry and I’ve got a living to make. I’m sure you could fit childcare into your schedule.’

‘Oh? What gave you that misguided idea?’ Abby pounced on his last statement. She might not be a rabid feminist but she did hold that talent and drive were neither gender-orientated nor segregated. Women did not have to be the child-tenders. But the look on Harry’s face soon shut her up. He looked as if he had heard this argument about who was going to look after him before and it made him feel like a package no one wanted.

‘I’ll tell you what, nobody has to entertain me. I’ll go fishing by myself. You two can work all you want. Don’t think about me. I’ll go fishing!’ With that Harry ran out of the kitchen with a very set look on his face.

Abby slumped back in her chair and glared at Selby. ‘You brought the kid out to this island. Why did you do that if you weren’t going to spend time with him?’

‘I spent all day yesterday with him,’ Selby flashed at her.

‘Do you honestly think that one day is enough? What did you do for the first three weeks you were here?’

‘We did things together,’ Selby defended himself. ‘It’s different for men; we don’t have to be together all the hours of the day. And, besides, Harry is getting to be a big boy and big boys like to investigate on their own.’

‘If you both have been here three weeks then Harry must know the island very well. There’s not that much of it to investigate.’ Abby was getting more and more angry on Harry’s behalf with this whole conversation.

Stop it, she told herself, this is not helping anything and you know you want to help.

‘I suppose I could start my work tomorrow. I’ll go fishing with Harry,’ Abby said after she had mastered her anger.

‘That’ll be nice,’ Selby said, looking as if he had been giving himself instructions to calm down. ‘Especially considering the fact that Harry doesn’t know anything about fishing. If you two catch something it would enlarge our larder. Harry and I both love fried fish.’

‘I have always hated fried fish,’ Abby said, ‘and I don’t see any reason why—’ And she stopped at that point. Sucker, she told herself. He’s just trying to jolly you into looking after the boy full time. His father was staring at her with a look that said, Of course you will. Abby felt stalled between announcing, ‘The hell you say,’ or going along with the game to see what else might develop. She was fairly sure, however, what was going to develop and that it would involve Harry and herself doing things together. Her own work would suffer. Her editor would want her head on a pike. Oh, well, in for a penny.

‘Yes,’ she finally said, ‘Harry and I will go fishing. What are you going to be doing?’

‘Well,’ he said, ‘I have a great deal of work to do. I need to rewrite some pages that were lost to the world of adolescent art and they have to be replaced so that I can finish this paper.’

‘I heard you last night,’ Abby chipped in. ‘Is this going to be a long paper? What are you writing? Do you think it will ever be published?’

‘Published? Please—I’m writing something for a legal case I’m working on. Well, it’s a very long argument and I have to keep at it, so I’ll put my grind to the nosestone while you two have all the fun in the world.’

‘Yes, I can bet you will,’ Abby said sarcastically. ‘Put your nose to the grindstone, I mean.’ Another discouraged sigh. ‘I don’t suppose you would consider that I have a great deal of work to do myself?’

He waved her off. ‘Surely not as important as mine, my dear.’ There was a suave tone in his voice. Like a travelling salesman, Abby thought. He’d make a good Hellfire and Damnation preacher. Or perhaps a politician—no, nothing that bad. Like all non-politicians in Washington, Abby could be either a devoted follower, or a member of a ‘hate’ group. Usually she fitted under the latter label.

‘And just what,’ Abby said indignantly, ‘do you suppose will happen to all the work that I brought with me? I have to get it done. There’s a deadline and I need peace and quiet.’

‘Oh, you don’t need that much time,’ Selby said. ‘Anyone of your calibre, any good red-blooded American woman can do this kind of thing easily. Besides, that’s what New Englanders do best, isn’t it, fishing?’

‘Let me remind you,’ Abby said very firmly, ‘that I come from Washington, DC, not New England.’

‘Oh, that slipped my mind,’ Selby said. ‘Slipped my ever-loving mind. My apologies. But you will take the boy fishing.’

‘I will take the boy fishing. I said so once before. We will be back at noontime. You will make the lunch. It will not be peanut butter sandwiches. And you will look around for Cleo’s ball. She’ll go whompers if we can’t find it.’

‘Did you hear that, Harry?’ the man said loudly.

‘Yeah, I heard it.’ A tear-stained Harry came into the room. ‘I wasn’t gonna go until I got Cleo to come with me.’

‘A boy and his dog,’ Selby said softly. ‘I remember those days with my dog Sam.’

There was a look on his face that was at odds with the impression Abby had been forming of him. It looked as if he cared about his son and just didn’t know how to go about connecting with him. ‘It will not be peanut butter sandwiches, and I must find Cleo’s ball. This lady must have been a drill sergeant.’

‘I heard it,’ the boy said. ‘I hope—I hope it works out right. I think the ball might taste better than the peanut butter. But I do want to go fishing.’

‘Well, then,’ Abby said, ‘what we need are a couple of fishing poles, some bait—did you bring any bait, either of you?’

‘Not me,’ Selby said. ‘What is it, this bait business?’

‘Oh, my lord.’ Abby sighed as she pushed her chair away from the table. ‘I am very suspicious, Mr Farnsworth. Sometimes you seem to know everything in the world and sometimes you don’t seem to know anything at all.’

‘Ah. I have had many women tell me that,’ Selby said. ‘It’s a failure in my system some place. Harry, all the fishing gear is out in that hut behind the house. Do you want to go get it?’

The little boy jumped up, wide-eyed, expectant, and went out as fast as his legs could take him.

‘Now, what is all this?’ Abby said. ‘Some sort of condition that you are setting?’

‘Sit down, Abby,’ he said. ‘There’s something I need to talk to you about.’

‘I’m not sure there is anything I need to listen from you about.’

‘Abigail, I want to talk to you about Harry.’

‘You want to talk to me about Harry? About how he behaved last night? About how he went off to bed all by himself? How there was not an adult in sight to tuck him in, wish him well, tell him a story? Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?’

‘Lord, I never imagined all that,’ Selby said. ‘And yes, that is partly what I wanted to talk to you about. It’s a difficult thing—a little boy who can’t sleep through the night. Who wakes up crying as he goes around the house looking for—’

‘Looking for what?’ Abby interrupted.

‘Looking for his mother,’ Selby said. ‘I want to thank you for the kindness and consideration you showed last night and I want to thank you for the future kindness I am sure you will show him. I have a troubled little boy and I don’t know everything there is to know about handling him. He was given to his mother by the courts after our divorce five years ago. After a long struggle I’ve finally been given visitation rights. I’ve only a short time to get to know the boy—and I’m desperate. Will you help?’

And with a plea like that, Abby told herself, how could I not?