I nodded.
“Point me in any direction?”
“No.”
“You going to settle the claim?” I said.
“Too early to say.”
We sat and looked at each other. She knew I wasn’t going to take her advice. I knew she wasn’t going to tell me anything.
“Your first name is Winifred?” I said.
“Yes.”
“You don’t look like a Winifred to me,” I said.
“Nor to me,” she said. “But which nickname would you prefer: Winnie or Fred?”
I smiled.
“Good-bye, Winifred,” I said.
“Good-bye.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
“Which you won’t take,” she said.
“No.”
She stood and came around the desk. She was wearing a skirt. Her legs were great. I stood. She put out her hand. I took it.
“Be careful,” she said.
“Within reason,” I said.
“Most of us, I suppose, do what we must, more than what we should,” she said.
“Sometimes they overlap,” I said.
“Perhaps,” she said.
We shook hands, and I left. I was glad her legs were great.
9
It was raining and very windy. I had swiveled my chair around so I could look out my office window and watch the weather. As I was watching, there was a sort of self-effacing little tap on my office door. I swiveled around and said, “Come in.”
The door opened about halfway, and a woman peeked in with her head tilted sideways. She had gray-brown hair, and she was wearing glasses with metal frames that looked sort of government-issue.
“Mr. Spenser?”
“Yes.”
“May I come in?”
“Sure.”
“I don’t have an appointment,” she said.
I smiled.
“I can squeeze you in,” I said.
“I could come back,” she said.
I stood up.
“Come in,” I said. “Talk to me. I’m lonely.”
She opened the door all the way and sort of darted through it, as if she didn’t want to waste my time. I gestured for her to sit in a chair in front of my desk. She scooted to it and sat down. She was carrying a green rain poncho.
“May I put this on the floor?” she said. “I don’t want to get your furniture wet.”
“Sure.”
She was kind of thin, and seemed to be flat-chested, although the bulky brown sweater she was wearing didn’t allow a definitive judgment. Her face was small. Her skin was pale. I saw no evidence of makeup. She put the poncho on the floor and perched on the front edge of the chair with her knees together. She smoothed her ankle- length tan skirt down over them. She folded her hands in her lap for a moment, then unfolded them and rested them on the arms of her chair. Then she refolded them in her lap and sat forward.
“Sometimes I think loneliness describes the human condition,” she said.
“Actually,” I said, “I’m not lonely. I was just being, ah, lighthearted.”
She nodded. We sat. Now that she had settled on what to do with her hands, she was motionless. I smiled. She looked down at her hands.
