It was later that week when I received a terse phone call from my son. “I was able to get your VCR repaired. I’ll be home in a short while to hook it up for you.”
“Very well, sweetheart.” Normally I would have smiled. Even after all the years he’d had his townhouse, he still referred to this house as home.
I knew my son, though, and I could tell from his tone of voice that he wasn’t pleased with what he’d learned.
“Why don’t you stay for dinner? I’ll have Gregor make something Italian.” But I was disturbed. Who was the man who’d had tea with me, and why had he felt the need to feign interest in my son?
Quinton must have been calling from his Lexus, because not more than ten minutes later he arrived on my doorstep. Gregor ushered him into the back parlor, then stood beside the door with
