Julia cooked stuffed pork chops with mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans, and apple-sauce. I brought a bottle of California Chardonnay, inexpensive but at least barrel fermented. Her little house lacked a formal dining room so we ate on the patio, where she set up a card table with a red-checked tablecloth and candle. The June air was crisp.
"Harold called," Julia said, after we sat. "You've been spending time with him and I'm so grateful."
Her genuine gratitude made me a little uneasy: my time with Harold had a dual motive.
I told Julia about my research at the library and about the test I'd given Smith. Today was Adam Smith's birthday, I added.
Julia thanked me, then frowned. "I worry about the toll on Harold." She ...