“Your roses,” George groused, on Sir Laurence Taylor’s doorstep, “need some work. And that wisteria. Fire your staff.”
“What,” Laurie said, “my entire staff?” and took a step back, welcoming him in. “Even the very kind young man who delivers groceries? That seems rather excessive to me.” He did not add that he’d had young Derek make a delivery that very morning. George Forrest, novelist—famous novelist—had crankily emerged from seclusion for a film premiere two months ago; George Forrest was here. At his home.
I am, he thought, too old to be anxious about this sort of thing. Or precisely old enough to be delighted. He’s here. He rang me and said he’d be coming over, just like that, in that voice.
Laurie’s chest had experienced a fluttery topsy-turvy feeling at that gruff proclamation, m
