Meeting Blanche
A light drizzle turned into a downpour as Leslie ran from the bus stop at the Rusty Scupper pub across the street to the Weatherby’s gate. He rang the bell, wondering what the hell he was doing. He had to know the truth. Is it my head telling me what to do or my heart? He was thinking this when a stocky young man answered the door.
“I’d like to speak to Mrs. Weatherby,” Leslie said.
The man met his gaze with a puzzled expression. “Weatherby? No one here by that name.” He looked as if he was about to close the door when he changed his mind and held it open for Leslie to enter. “You’d better come inside,” he said. “I’ll get my mum. She should be up by now,” and then he led the way upstairs and knocked at a door on the second floor.
“Mum, you up yet?”
A woman’s voice answ
