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.”
“How did you get the game on your TV out here, anyway?”
He jerked a sheet off a combination television and VCR with a magician’s ta-da flourish, explaining that he’d asked a guy from the town to record it for him that afternoon.
“I know, Why risk so much for a basketball game? Behold the weakness that is man.”
“Did you play basketball?” she asked, eyeing again his sleek height.
“Americans always ask me that, and so, curious, I started watching the NBA games a couple of years ago. Now I’m shamelessly addicted.They’re a bit more exciting than football, aren’t they? About as much running around but a lot more goals. Don’t tell a soul from Sheffield that I said that. Long live the Manchester United.”
“Yes, absolutely, go United,” she said, crossing herself.
“So, uh, you came about the score.”
“Yes, the score,” she said, having forgotten all about it.
“Last I saw, it was fifteen to ten Knicks, first quarter.”
“First quarter? Well, would you mind if I stayed and watched the rest?”
“If Mrs. Wattlesbrook finds you here . . .”
“They all think I’m in bed. No one will come looking for me. I’m last in precedence, after all.”