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His black eyes narrowed under his bushy brows as he examined her alertly. ‘Ah,’ he said softly, ‘so you’re finally admitting it. I do wish you wouldn’t push yourself so hard. There’s no need for it any more, you know.’
Dismissing this comment with an easy smile, Emma leaned closer to him, and no longer able to suppress her curiosity, she asked eagerly, ‘What do you want my advice about? You sounded cagey on the phone this morning.’
‘I didn’t mean to, darlin’.’ He sipped his whiskey, puffed away for a moment, and continued, ‘But I’d prefer to wait until Shane comes back, if you don’t mind, since it concerns him.’
‘What concerns me?’ Shane asked from the doorway. He strolled into the room, his drink in his hand.
‘The business matter I want to discuss with Emma.’
‘I’ll say it concerns me!’ Shane exclaimed rather forcefully. ‘It was my idea in the first place.’ Seating himself on the sofa next to Emma, he settled against the cushions, crossed his legs and turned to her. ‘Winston’s sorry he missed your calls. He was out in the garden earlier, worrying about the beck flooding. It’s dangerously near to it apparently.’ His eyes swivelled to his grandfather. ‘I just rang Derek and asked him to get a couple of our men over to Beck House tomorrow, to check things out.’
‘Aye, that’s a good idea. But they’ll have to shore up those banks a lot better than they did last year,’ Blackie remarked pointedly. ‘Now, if you’d both listened to me, it would have been done right in the first place. Let me explain a couple of things.’ He commenced to do so, not giving Shane a chance to respond. And then for the next couple of minutes they discussed various methods of reinforcement. They sounded for all the world like a couple of builders about to embark on a major construction project, and Blackie was most vociferous in his opinions, which tickled Emma. He was still a bricklayer at heart.
But she soon lost interest in their somewhat technical conversation. She had become extremely conscious of Shane’s presence next to her. His bulk did more than fill the sofa, it commandeered it. For the first time in years she began to regard him through newly perceptive and objective eyes, not as an old family friend, but as a younger woman – a stranger – might. How marvellous looking he was tonight, dressed in an impeccably tailored grey suit and a pale-blue voile shirt with a silver-grey silk tie. He had inherited his grandfather’s large frame, his broad sweeping back and powerful shoulders, along with Blackie’s wavy black hair and those sparkling eyes so like jet. His complexion was dark too, but his light mahogany tan came from winter sun, garnered on the ski slopes of Switzerland or a lazy Caribbean beach, and not from toiling long hours as a navvy out in the open as his grandfather had once done.
His appearance was much like Blackie’s had been at his age. The face is different, though, she thought, sneaking another surreptitious look at him, but he does have Blackie’s distinctive cleft in his chin, the same dimples when he smiles. And that long upper lip betrays his Celtic origins. I bet he’s broken many a heart already, she added silently with an inward smile of amusement. Then she experienced a tiny pang of sadness for Sarah. Easy to understand why the girl had a crush on him. He was a splendid young man who exuded virility and manliness, and there was a unique warmth and gentleness in him. That was the most devastating of combinations, and she knew only too well about men like Shane O’Neill. She had loved such a man herself, had had her heart broken by him once when she had been young and vulnerable and very much in love. But he had repaired her broken heart, had given her immeasurable happiness and fulfilment in the end. Yes, Paul McGill had had the same kind of potency and fatal charm such as Shane O’Neill possessed in some abundance.
Blackie said, ‘Daydreaming, Emma darlin’?’
She shifted her position on the sofa and smiled lightly. ‘No. I’m patiently waiting for you two to finish discussing that damn beck, so we can get down to brass tacks about the business you want my advice on.’
‘Why yes, of course, it’s wasting time we are,’ he admitted, his manner more genial than ever. In fact, conviviality seemed to spill out of Blackie tonight, and he beamed first at Emma, then at Shane. ‘Now, me boy,’ he said, ‘please top up Emma’s glass with a drop more of that bubbly, and give me a refill, and we’ll settle in for a nice little chat.’
And this they did, after Shane had attended to their drinks.
It was Shane who began, concentrating his attention entirely on Emma, his tone as sober as his face had become. He spoke rapidly, but clearly, as he generally did in business, plunging in without preamble. Emma appreciated his directness, and she, in turn, gave him all of her attention.
Shane said: ‘We’ve been wanting to build, or acquire, a hotel in New York for several years. Dad and I have both spent a great deal of time scouting out possibilities. Recently we found the ideal place. It’s a residential hotel in the East Sixties. Old-fashioned, of course, and the interiors are in need of considerable remodelling – rebuilding actually. That’s what we’ll do – most likely. You see, we tendered a bid, it has been accepted, and we’re buying the hotel. The papers are currently being drawn up.’
‘Congratulations, Shane, and you too, Blackie!’ Emma looked from one to the other, her face bathed in genuine delight. ‘But how can I be of help to you? Why do you need to talk to me? I don’t know a blessed thing about hotels, except whether or not they’re comfortable and efficient.’
‘But you do know New York City, Emma,’ Blackie countered, leaning forward with intentness. ‘That’s why we need you.’
‘I’m not sure that I follow you – ’
‘We need you to steer us in the right direction to the best people,’ Shane cut in, wanting to get to the crux of the matter. He pinned her with his bright black eyes. ‘It seems to me that you’ve made that city your own in so many different ways, so you must know what makes it tick. Or rather what makes its business and commerce tick.’ His generous mouth curved up into the cheekiest of grins. ‘We want to pick your brains, and use your connections,’ he finished, regarding her carefully, his cheekiness still very much in evidence.
Amusement flickered in Emma’s eyes. She had always liked Shane’s style, his directness, his boyish impudence. She stifled a laugh, said, ‘I see. Do continue.’
‘Right,’ Shane replied, all seriousness again. ‘Look, we’re a foreign corporation, and in my opinion that city’s as tight as drum. We can’t go in cold … well, we could, but we’d have a tough time. I’m sure we’d be resented. We need advisers – the proper advisers – and some good connections. Political connections for one thing. And we’ll need help with the unions, with any number of things. I’m sure you of all people understand what I’m talking about, Aunt Emma. So, where do we go? Who do we go to?’
Emma’s mind had been working with its usual swiftness and acuity, and she saw the sense in Shane’s words. He had analysed the situation most shrewdly. She told him this, went on without hesitation, ‘It would be unwise of you to start operating in New York without the most influential backing and support. You’ll need everybody in your corner, and the only way you’ll get them in it is through friends. Good friends with clout. I think I can help.’
‘I knew if anybody could, it would be you. Thanks, Aunt Emma,’ Shane said, and she saw him visibly relaxing.
‘Yes, we’re very grateful, me darlin’,’ Blackie added, pushing himself up out of the chair. He took his drink to the console behind the sofa, plopped in extra ice, added more water to his whiskey, and said, ‘Well, go on, Shane, as Emma asked.’ He touched her shoulder lightly, lovingly. Emma glanced behind her, questions on her face. Blackie chuckled. ‘Oh yes, there’s more,’ he said, and ambled back to his chair by the fireside.
Shane said: ‘We have a solid, well-established law firm representing us in the purchase of the hotel – they’re specialists in real estate. However, I feel we are going to need additional representation for other business matters. I’d like to find a really prestigious law firm that has political savvy and a few gilt-edged connections. Any suggestions about that?’
There was a moment of thoughtfulness, before Emma said, ‘Yes, of course. I could send you to my lawyers, and to any number of people who would be of use to you. But I’ve been thinking hard whilst I’ve been listening, and I believe there is one person who would be of more assistance to you than me and my lawyers and my friends put together. His name is Ross Nelson. He’s a banker – head of a private bank, in fact. He has the very best connections in New York, throughout the States, for that matter. I’m sure he’ll be able to recommend the law firm most qualified for your purposes, and assist you in a variety of other ways.’
‘But will he do it?’ Shane asked, doubt echoing.
‘He will if I ask him,’ she said, giving Shane the benefit of a reassuring smile. ‘I can telephone him on Monday, and explain everything. I hope I’ll be able to enlist his help immediately. Would you like me to do that?’
‘Yes, I would. We would.’ He swung his head to Blackie. ‘Wouldn’t we, Grandfather?’
‘Anything you say, my boy. This is your deal.’ Blackie tapped ash from his cigar, looked across at Emma. ‘That name Nelson rings a bell. Have I met him?’
‘Why yes, I think you did once. It was some years ago, Blackie. Ross was over in England with his great-uncle, Daniel P. Nelson. Dan was a close friend and associate of Paul’s, if you recall. He’s the fellow who wanted me to send Daisy over to the States during the war, to stay with him and his wife, Alicia. But as you know, I never wanted Daisy to be evacuated. Anyway, the Nelsons only had one child, Richard. The boy was killed in the Pacific. Dan was never quite the same after that. He made Ross his heir, after his wife, of course. Ross inherited controlling interest in the bank in Wall Street when Dan died, and God knows what else. Not millions. Zillions, I think. Daniel P. Nelson was one of the richest men in America, had tremendous power.’
Shane was impressed and this showed in his face. He asked quickly, ‘How old a man is Ross Nelson?’
‘Oh he must be in his late thirties, early forties, not much more.’
‘Are you sure he won’t mind helping us? I’d hate to think he would regard your request as an imposition. That kind of situation can create difficulties,’ Shane remarked. He was intrigued with Nelson, wanted to know more about him. He reached for his drink and took a swallow, observing Emma out of the corner of his eye.
Emma laughed quietly. ‘He owes me a few favours. And he won’t think I’m imposing, I can assure you of that.’ She gave Shane a shrewd look through her narrowed green eyes. ‘Mind you, I know Ross, and he’s going to expect something in return. Business, I’m sure, in one form or another. Actually, you might consider doing some of your investment banking with him, and let his bank handle your affairs on that side of the Atlantic. You could do worse.’ There was a cynical edge to her voice, as she finished, ‘There are two things you must remember, Shane … one hand always washes the other, and there’s never anything free in this world. Especially in business.’
Shane met her cool, concentrated gaze steadily. ‘I understand,’ he said softly. ‘And I learned long ago that anything for nothing is usually not worth having. As for Ross Nelson, I’ll know how to show my appreciation, you have no worries there.’
Blackie, who had been following this exchange with considerable interest, slapped his knee and laughed uproariously. ‘Ah, Emma, it’s a spry one I’ve got me here.’ He shook his head and his benevolent smile expressed his love and pride. ‘There are no flies on you, my boy, I’m glad to see, and it won’t be the same without you.’ A hint of sadness crept on to his face, wiping away the laughter. ‘I know it’s important and necessary, but I hate to see you go away again, and so quickly. It pains me, it truly does.’
Emma put down her glass and stared at Shane. ‘When are you leaving, Shane?’
‘I fly to New York on Monday morning. I’ll be staying there for a good six months, maybe longer. I’ll be supervising the rebuilding of the hotel in Manhattan, and trotting down to the Caribbean every few weeks to check on our hotels in the islands.’
‘Six months,’ she repeated in surprise. ‘That is a long time. We shall miss you.’ But perhaps it’s just as well he won’t be around for a while, she added under her breath, thinking of her granddaughter Sarah Lowther. Out of sight, out of mind. Or so she hoped.
Shane cut into her thoughts, when he said, ‘I shall miss you too, Aunt Emma, and Grandfather, everyone in fact. But I’ll be back almost before you can say Jack Robinson.’ He leaned into Emma and squeezed her arm. ‘And keep an eye on this lovable old scoundrel here. He’s very dear to me.’
‘And to me too, Shane. Of course I’ll look after him.’
‘Ah, and won’t we be taking care of each other now,’ Blackie announced, sounding extremely pleased with himself all of a sudden, thinking of his Plan with a capital P. ‘But then we’ve been doing that for half a century or more, and it’s a difficult habit to break, sure an’ it is.’
‘I can imagine.’ Shane laughed, marvelling at the two of them. What an extraordinary pair they were, and the love and friendship they felt for each other was a most enviable thing. Sighing under his breath, he reached for his scotch, peered into the amber liquid, reflecting. After a swallow he turned to Emma. ‘But getting back to Ross Nelson, what kind of a chap is he?’
‘Unusual in many ways,’ Emma said slowly, staring into space, as if visualizing Ross Nelson in her mind’s eye. ‘Ross is deceptive. He has a certain charm, and he appears to be very friendly. On the surface. I’ve always thought there was an innate coldness in him, and a curious kind of calculation, as if he stands apart from himself, watching the effect he has on people. There’s a terrific ego there, and especially when it comes to women. He’s something of a ladies’ man, and has just been divorced for the second time. Not that this is significant: on the other hand, it’s frequently struck me that he might be unscrupulous … in his private life.’
She paused, brought her eyes to meet Shane’s, and added, ‘But that has nothing to do with you or me. As far as business is concerned, I deem Ross to be trustworthy. You have no cause to worry in that respect. But be warned, he’s clever, razor sharp, and he has the need to get his own way – that monumental ego rears up constantly.’
‘Quite a picture you’ve painted, Aunt Emma. Obviously I’ll have to have my wits about me.’
‘That’s always wise, Shane, whoever you’re dealing with.’ She smiled faintly. ‘On the other hand, you’re going to Ross for advice, not pitting yourself against him in a business deal. You’ll be able to handle Ross Nelson very nicely. In fact, I think you’ll get along with him just fine. Don’t forget, he owes me a few favours, so he’ll bend over backwards to be co-operative and helpful.’
‘I know your judgement is never flawed, always spot on,’ Shane replied. He rose, walked around the sofa to fix himself another drink, thinking of the characterization she had drawn in her thumbnail sketch. He was anxious to meet the man. It was obvious that Nelson was going to be invaluable. And he was impatient to get the ball rolling with the New York hotel. He needed to submerge himself in business, to take his mind off troubling personal matters. Ross Nelson might possibly be a pain in the neck in his private life, but who cared about his philandering. As long as he was smart, shrewd, trustworthy, and willing to help, that was all that mattered.
Blackie’s eyes flicked briefly to his grandson, and then settled on Emma. ‘I’m not so sure I like the sound of this Ross Nelson fellow,’ he began.
Emma cut him off with a laugh. ‘My money’s on Shane. He’s a grown lad who knows how to take care of himself very well. Very well indeed, Blackie. I’ll even go as far as to say that Ross Nelson might have met his match in Shane.’ This observation seemed to entertain her, and she continued to laugh.
Shane grinned, but made no comment.
He was looking forward to meeting Mr Ross Nelson more than ever. The banker would add spice to the New York venture.
CHAPTER 9 (#ulink_61b8ef17-3cf5-5977-b0c0-a04846d9abb5)
They sat in front of the blazing fire in the library – just the two of them.
Blackie nursed a snifter of aged Napoleon cognac, and Emma sipped a cup of tea with lemon. He had poured her a small glass of Bonnie Prince Charlie, her favourite Drambuie liqueur, but it remained untouched on the Sheraton side table next to her chair.
They were quiet, lost in their diverse thoughts, relaxing after Mrs Padgett’s fine dinner. Shane had left, and, as much as they both loved him in their individual ways, they were content to have this time alone together.
The firelight flickered and danced across the bleached-pine panelled walls which had taken on a mellow amber cast in the warm roseate glow emanating from the hearth. In the garden beyond the French doors, the towering old oak creaked and rustled and swayed under the force of the wind that had turned into a roaring gale in the last hour. The door and the windows rattled, and the rain was flung against the glass in an unrelenting stream, beating a steady staccato rhythm, and it was difficult to see out through this curtain of falling water. But in the fine old room all was warmth, cosiness and comfort. The logs crackled and hissed and spurted from time to time, and the grandfather clock, an ancient sentinel in the corner, ticked away in unison.
His eyes had been focused on her for a while.
In repose, as it was now, Emma’s face was gentle, the firm jaw and determined chin and stern mouth softer, less forbidding in the flattering light. Her hair held the lustre of the purest silver, and she seemed, to him, to be a lovely dainty doll, sitting there so sedately, perfectly groomed and dressed as always, elegance and refinement apparent in every line of her slender body.
She had not changed really.
Oh, he was aware that when the flames blazed more brightly, he would notice the wrinkles and the hooded lids and the faint brown speckles of age on her hands. But he knew, deep in his soul, that she was still the same girl inside.
She would always be his wild young colleen of the moors, that little starveling creature he had come across early one morning in 1904, when she had been tramping so bravely to Fairley Hall to scrub and clean in order to earn a few miserable coppers to help her impoverished family. His destination had been the same place, for Squire Adam Fairley had hired him to do bricklaying at the Hall, and then he had stupidly gone and lost himself in the mist on those bleak and empty Godforsaken hills … so long ago … but not so long to him. He had never forgotten that day.
Blackie’s gaze lingered on Emma.
He had loved this woman from the first moment he had met her and all the days of his life thereafter. He had been eighteen, that day on the lonely moors, and she had been a fourteen-year-old waif, all skin and bones and huge emerald eyes, and she had touched his heart like no one else before or after, and bound him to her forever without even trying.
Once he had asked her to marry him.
She, believing it was out of kindness and friendship, and the goodness of his heart, had refused him. She had thanked him sweetly, her face wet with tears, and explained that she and the child she was carrying, by another man, would only be burdens to him. And she would not inflict such a terrible load on her dearest friend Blackie, she had said.
Eventually, he had married Laura Spencer, and he had loved her well and true. And yet he had never stopped loving his bonny mavourneen, even though at times he was hard pressed to explain that unique love to himself, or articulate it to her, or anyone else for that matter.
There was a time when he had half expected Emma to marry David Kallinski, but once again she had turned down a splendid, upright young man. Later, she had confided the reason to him. She had not wanted to create trouble between David and his family, who were Jewish. Although Mrs Kallinski was motherly towards her, Emma said she had long realized that as a Gentile she would not be considered appropriate as a daughter-in-law by Janessa Kallinski, who was Orthodox and expected her son to marry in the Faith.
Then one day, Joe Lowther had come riding by, metaphorically speaking, and to Blackie’s astonishment – and not inconsiderable bewilderment – Emma had plunged into holy matrimony with Joe. He had never been able to fully comprehend their union. In his opinion, it was difficult, if not downright impossible, to hitch a race horse and a cart horse to the same wagon. But Joe had been a kindly man, if plodding and dull and not particularly brilliant or engaging. Still, he and Blackie had liked each other well enough and had gone off to fight a war together. And he had seen Joe Lowther killed in the muddy trenches of the bloody, battle-torn Somme, and had wept real tears for him, for Joe had been too young a man to die. And he had, never been able to talk about Joe’s ghastly death, to tell her that he had seen Joe blown to smithereens. Only years later did he learn from Emma that she had married Joe, who adored her, to protect herself and her baby daughter Edwina from the Fairleys, after Gerald Fairley had attempted to rape her one night at her little shop in Armley. ‘It wasn’t as calculating as it sounds,’ she had gone on. ‘I liked Joe, cared for him, and because he was a good man I felt honour-bound to be a good wife.’ And she had been devoted, he knew that.
The second time he had wanted to marry Emma he had truly believed his timing was perfect, that he had every chance of being accepted, and he was buoyed up with soaring hopes and anticipation. It was a short while after the First World War when they were both widowed. In the end, though, uncertain of her true feelings for him, and filled with sudden nervousness about Emma’s astonishing achievements in comparison to his own, he had lost his nerve, and his tongue, and so he had not spoken up. Regrettably. And she had unexpectedly gone off and married Arthur Ainsley, a man not good enough to lick her boots, and had suffered all kinds of pain and humiliation at Ainsley’s hands. Finally, in the 1920s, as he was biding his time and waiting for the propitious moment, Paul McGill had come back to England to claim her at last for himself.
And he had lost his chance again.
Now it was too late for them to marry. Yet, in a sense, they had something akin to marriage and just as good, to his way of thinking … this friendship, this closeness, this total understanding. Yes, all were of immense and incalculable value. And Emma and he were perfectly attuned to each other in the twilight of their days, and what did the rest mean, or matter, at this stage in the game of life?
But he still had that ring …
Much to his own surprise, Blackie had kept the engagement ring he had bought for Emma so long ago. There had never been another woman to give it to – at least, not one he cared enough about; and for a reason he could not fathom, he had never wanted to sell it.
Tonight the ring had burned a hole in his pocket all through drinks and dinner, in much the same way his Plan with a capital P burned a hole in his head. Putting down his drink, he leaned closer to the hearth, lifted the poker and shoved the logs around in the grate, wondering if it was finally the right time to give it to her. Why not?
He heard the rustle of silk and a sigh that was hardly audible.
‘Did I startle you, Emma?’
‘No, Blackie.’
‘I have something for you.’
‘You do? What is it?’
He reached into his pocket and brought out the box, sat holding it in his large hands.
Emma asked curiously, ‘Is it my birthday present?’ and she gave him a warm little smile of obvious pleasure, laughter sparkling in her eyes.
‘Oh no, indeed it’s not. I intend to give you that on your birthday at the …’ He curbed himself. The elaborate party he and Daisy were planning was very hush-hush and meant to be a big surprise for Emma. ‘You’ll get your birthday gift at the end of the month, on the very day you’re eighty,’ he improvised adroitly. ‘No, this is something I bought for you …’ He had to laugh, as he added, ‘Fifty years ago, believe it or not.’
She threw him a startled look. ‘Fifty years! But why didn’t you give it to me before now?’
‘Ah, Emma, thereby hangs a long tale,’ he said, and fell silent as memories came unbidden.
How beautiful she had looked that night, with her red hair piled high on her head in an elaborate plaited coil, wearing a superb white velvet gown, cut low and off the shoulders. Pinned to one of the small sleeves was the emerald bow he had had made for her thirtieth birthday, an exquisite replica of the cheap little green-glass brooch he had given her when she was fifteen. She had been touched and delighted that he had not forgotten his old promise, made to her in the kitchen of Fairley Hall. But on that particular Christmas night, in all her elegant finery, with McGill’s magnificent emeralds blazing on her ears, he had thought his emerald bow, costly though it had been, looked like a trumpery bauble in comparison to those earrings …
Growing impatient, Emma frowned and exclaimed, ‘Well, are you going to tell me the tale or not?’
He pushed the past to one side, flashed her a smile. ‘Do you remember that first party I gave here? It was Christmas
‘Boxing Day night!’ Emma cried, her face lighting up. ‘You had just completed this house, finished furnishing it with all the lovely Sheraton and Hepplewhite pieces you’d scoured the country to find. And you were so proud of what you’d created all by yourself. Of course I remember the party, and very clearly. It was 1919.’
Blackie nodded, glanced down at the box, continuing to finger it. He raised his head. Unabashed love shone on his craggy, wrinkled face, giving it a more youthful appearance. ‘I’d bought this for you earlier that week. I’d travelled down to London to choose it, gone to the finest jeweller, too. It was in the pocket of my tuxedo. I’d intended to give it to you at the party.’
‘But you never did … why not? Whatever made you change your mind, Blackie?’ She looked at him oddly, through eyes awash with perplexity.
‘I’d decided to have a talk first – with Winston. Why, it was here, in this very room, as a matter of fact.’ He looked about him, as if seeing that ancient scene being re-enacted in the shadows; seeing the ghost of Winston, as he had been as a young man, lurking there. He cleared his throat. ‘Your brother and I talked about you, and …’
‘What about me?’
‘We discussed you and your business ventures. I was worried to death about you, Emma, distressed because of the way you had plunged into the commodities market, and recklessly, or so I thought. I was concerned about your rapid expansion of the stores in the North, your determination to keep on building, acquiring other holdings. I believed you were over-extending yourself, gambling
‘I’ve always been a gambler,’ she murmured softly. ‘In a way, that’s the secret of my success … being willing to take chances …’ She left the rest unsaid. He surely knew it all by now.
‘Aye,’ he agreed. ‘Maybe it is. Anyway, Winston explained that you’d stopped the commodities lark, after making a fortune speculating, and he told me you were not in over your head. Just the opposite. He told me you were a millionairess. And as he talked, and ever so proudly, I began to realize that you were a far, far bigger success than I’d ever dreamed, that you’d surpassed me, outstripped David Kallinski, left us both behind in business. It suddenly seemed to me that you were quite beyond my reach. That’s why I never gave you this ring … You see Emma, I was going to ask you to marry me that night.’
‘Oh Blackie, Blackie darling,’ was all she could manage to say, so stupefied was she. Tears pricked the back of Emma’s eyes as a variety of emotions seized her with some force. Her love and friendship for him rose up in her to mingle with a terrible sadness and a sense of regret for Blackie, as she envisioned the pain he must have suffered then and afterwards, perhaps. He had wanted her, and he had not said a word. That was his tragedy. At the party in 1919 she had believed Paul McGill was lost to her forever. How vulnerable and susceptible she would have been to her one true friend Blackie in her heartbreak, loneliness and despair. And if he had been more courageous how different their lives would have turned out. Her thoughts ran on endlessly. Why had she never suspected that he cared for her in that way … that he had marriage on his mind? She must have been blind or dense or too involved with business.
The silence between them drifted.
Blackie sat unmoving in the chair, staring into the fire, saying not a word, remembering so much himself. It’s odd, he thought suddenly, how things which happened to me when I was a young man have an extraordinary vividness these days. More so than events of last week, or even yesterday. I suspect that’s part of growing old.
