Chapter 61: AcceptanceOne o’clock in the afternoon. A thin, blondish gentleman by the name of Paul Channing usually delivered the daily mail. Thirty-two-year-old Channing was a model resident of the West End community: eloquent, delightful, always friendly, always smiling, would sometimes stop in and have a quick lunch with me, and seemed to enjoy my company. He spun West End tales with spirit, high energy, and eyebrow-raising entertainment. I found him fascinating, attention-grabbing, and attractive, a wordsmith like myself, a good friend, and someone I didn’t mind at all sharing a conversation with, lunch, and bumping into.
A letter from California arrived for the pool boy. Channing didn’t deliver it because he was on vacation in Aruba with his current boyfriend, a husky, hairy bear of
