“Miss Shepherd,” he exclaimed. “What a lovely surprise.”
Bill growled incoherently, cocked his arm, and let loose a punch that picked Gerald up and sent him sprawling backward into the parlor. Fist clenched, Bill charged in to stand over him, thundering, “That’s for kissing my wife!”
Nell swung around to stare at me, goggle-eyed. “So that’s what happened at Saint Bartholomew‘s!”
“It didn’t happen at Saint Bartholomew‘s,” I snapped distractedly. “Bill! Stop it! Leave him alone.” I tugged at Bill’s arm, attempting to pull him back into the hallway, but it was like trying to uproot a sequoia.
A calm, familiar voice spoke from across the room. “My dear boy, if what you suspect is true, then I sympathize with your sense of outrage, but do you really think that this is an appropriate time to upset Lori?”
I froze, Bill gaped, and Nell gasped.
Gerald groaned.
“Bill, help your cousin to his feet,” Willis, Sr., directed from an armchair at the far end of the couch. “Nell, please advise Mrs. Burweed that a telephone call to the local constabulary will not be necessary. Lori, I realize that you grew up with few relations, but surely you must have learned by now that the term ‘kissing cousins’ is not to be taken literally.”
Willis, Sr., had to give Mrs. Burweed his personal assurance that Bill wasn’t a dangerous lunatic before she’d consent to put the phone down and fetch a pair of ice bags from the kitchen. One was for Gerald’s poor black-and-blue-green eye, the other for the bruised knuckles on Bill’s right hand.
“You idiot,” I lectured, kneeling in front of Bill’s chair and subjecting each of his fingers to a minute inspection. “This was the only hand you had left. I suppose you’ll expect me to spoon-feed you now.”
“Humph,” Bill replied, glowering at Gerald, who was stretched full-length on the tattered sofa.
“Stop that,” I scolded. “I told you, it wasn’t Gerald’s fault. He didn’t know I was your wife. He didn’t know I was anyone’s wife. Besides, he didn’t mean anything by it. He was just being kind.”
Gerald spoke from beneath his ice bag. “Missing the point,” he murmured, slurring his sibilants. “Some things a chap has to make absolutely clear. Sanctity of marriage is one of them. No gray areas allowed.”
“Damned straight.” Bill nodded vigorously, caught himself mid-nod, and frowned at Gerald, clearly disconcerted to hear his cause championed by the man he’d just flattened.
I handed Bill his ice bag and sat on the arm of his chair, where I could keep an eye on him. The back parlor looked as drab and spiritless as it had the last time I’d been there. Darkness had swallowed the trees beyond the picture windows, and table lamps had been lit at either end of the couch. The soft light took the edge off the general dinginess and brought out the red-gold highlights in Gerald’s chestnut hair. Gerald was dressed much as he’d been when I’d last seen him, in faded jeans and a forest-green shirt made of soft, old cotton.
Willis, Sr., looked different, somehow, but I couldn’t put my finger on what had changed. He sat facing Bill and me, near the end of the couch where Mrs. Burweed had piled pillows for Gerald’s head. He wore an impeccably tailored charcoal-gray pinstripe suit, with a white shirt and an exquisite silver-gray silk tie, but there was nothing unusual in that. Like Nell, Willis, Sr., was always well dressed. His white hair flowed back from his high forehead, and his gray eyes were as serene as ever. A bit brighter than usual, perhaps, when they sought me out, but I’d expected that. He had to be pleased as punch to see Bill and me together. At the moment, however, his attention was focused on Nell.
Nell was perched on a footstool between the hearth and Willis, Sr.’s chair, speaking quietly with him. Suddenly, they looked in my direction, and I saw Willis, Sr., nod. At which point, Nell gave me a smile so dazzling it nearly blinded me.
“Mr. Willis! You all right?” Paul stood in the doorway, peering suspiciously around the back parlor, clutching a tire iron in one hand and Reginald in the other. He must have realized what an incongruous picture he presented, because he immediately darted across the room to hand Reginald over to me.
“Thanks, Paul.” I deposited Reginald in Bill’s lap, hoping that my bunny would exert a benign influence on my husband’s bad temper. “But I think you’d better get rid of the tire iron before Mrs. Burweed sees it. We’ve only just persuaded her not to call the cops.”
Paul looked over his shoulder and spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “But Master Bill said his father was in grave danger.”