Chapter 7

BETTY LEANED FORWARD AND poured herself a cup of tea from the pot. She added a drop of milk, picked up the small teaspoon, and stirred, all absentmindedly, her mind lost and worried.

The sound of the front door bell drew her attention. She rose slowly and, out of habit more than concern, checked herself in the hall mirror before opening the door. She wondered who was calling. She wasn’t expecting anyone.

Opening the door, she studied the gentleman standing before her. He was older than her, slender, mid-seventies, she thought. Dressed in a gray coat with black piping around the collar and a black Trilby hat on his head, he looked like a true gentleman from an age long ago in her youth.

He smiled, removing his hat, intelligent pale blue eyes alert, looking at her. With a smile, he extended his hand.

“Hello, Betty. I’ve come to have a chat with you.”

From years of politeness, Betty shook his proffered hand. She noticed his fingernails were spotlessly clean and trimmed, his hands liver-spotted. His grip was warm and dry. “Hello.”

“May I come in? I don’t suppose I could impose on you for a spot of that tea you’ve just made? I’m rather parched.”

“Of course. Please come in.” Betty didn’t even think twice why she was letting a stranger into her house, but something in his demeanor, his old-worldly manners, reassured her he wasn’t dangerous.

“You have a lovely house,” the gentleman said, taking in the living room. “That’s a beautiful Monet.”

Removing his coat, he revealed a neat, charcoal gray pinstripe suit, a crisp white shirt and a muted dark burgundy tie. A gold tiepin winked in the light. He folded and laid his coat over the arm of the couch carefully, and set his Trilby down on the coffee table as he settled onto the couch next to her, turning slightly towards her.

Betty poured him a cup of tea.

“Yes, please. A drop of milk would be fine,” he said just as she thought to ask. “Thank you,” he added, taking the cup and saucer. He sipped. “Ahhh. Earl Grey. Lovely. It’s such a shame the art of making tea is being lost to the younger generation.”

He placed the cup and saucer on the coffee table and looked at her. “Goodness gracious! Where are my manners? Please, forgive me. My name is Darren Faith. I’m sorry I’m so late.”

“Why are you here?” Betty asked.

Darren Faith smiled gently. “I’m here to help you, Betty.” He paused and studied her. “I know you’re hurting and worried. I know how you miss Harold. Rest assured he’s waiting for you and watching over you.”

Reaching out, he patted her hand. “Harold asked me to tell you something. Let me see...” He covered his mouth with his fist and cleared his throat.

In a lower baritone voice, he said, “Betty, my dear, you make the finest dry gin martinis west of the Rockies. Death Valley has nothing on you.”

A sob escaped from Betty, tears welling. That was, word-for-word, what Harold said every time she made martinis. How could Mr. Faith know? Pulling her lace handkerchief from her sleeve, she dabbed at her tears.

“How could you know that?” she asked.

“I know many things, Betty. For instance, I know how you feel your will to live is slipping through your fingers like fine sand, and how hard you’re trying to hold on. I know how scared you are for Amelia; how worried you are for her future.”