LITMIR.BIZ

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young man shifted on the hard wooden chair, placing a slim ankle on his knee. He had short brown hair and wore tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses. He was conservatively dressed in a light-blue seersucker suit, something one hardly saw these days. Conservative, except for his socks, which were yellow with bright blue fish cavorting across them. The socks, Jane thought, made the man.

      “I’m sorry I didn’t return your earlier messages,” Jane said. “I didn’t comprehend what you were after. I still don’t.”

      “Hello,” the phone message had said. “This is Paul Peavey from Walden Spring, the lifecare community for active adults fifty-five plus in Concord, Massachusetts. Irma Brittleson recommended you. Can you give me a call, please? Our number is—”

      Jane had run in from her garden to answer the blasted cell phone, which she’d left on her desk. As she’d listened to the message, she’d tried to conjure the kind of postapocalyptic world that would be required for her to return this call, but she could not. Would she ever get so desperate for the sound of a human voice she’d let someone try to sell her a condominium in an old folks village? She hoped not. And what was the story with her great and good friend Irma, giving her name and cell phone number to this guy? Did she think Jane could no longer handle her own home?

      Jane had ignored the second message as well. Which is why, she supposed, Paul Peavey had navigated the flagstones of the walk that ran along the side of her Cambridge, Massachusetts, home and knocked on the door to her office, which was a converted back porch.

      Peavey attempted to explain. “As I said, Mrs. Darrowfield, Miss Brittleson gave me your name. I’m the executive director at Walden Spring, the community for active adults fifty-five plus in Concord—”

      “Mr. Peavey—”

      “Paul.”

      “Paul, I’m sorry Irma wasted your time. I am not the least in the market for—”

      “No, no, no. I’m not selling anything. In fact, I’m hoping to buy something. Your time, that is. To buy your time.”

      A most unexpected remark.

      “Miss Brittleson comes to Walden Spring frequently to visit a friend. We got to talking, and she told me about some of the things you’ve done to . . . um . . . intervene, I guess would be the word, and fix some potentially awkward or even tragic situations. When she told me about you, I thought, that’s exactly what we need. We need someone to intervene and fix something in our community.”

      Jane was intrigued. And flattered, in a vague sort of way, though she wondered what Irma had been telling people. “When you say ‘fix something, ’ Mr. Peavey—”

      “Paul.”

      “Paul, what exactly are you referring to?”

      “We’re having some issues, hmm, with the, uh, social dynamics in the community.”

      Social dynamics? “Could you be more specific?”

      “I think it’s better for you to come and see for yourself. Say about ten a.m. Monday?”

      “Aren’t there social workers or therapists who specialize in this sort of thing?”

      “Been there. Done that. No results. I need someone like you, who can come into the community and get actively involved. I need someone who will intervene.”

      Curiouser and curiouser. “When you said you wanted to buy my time, what did you mean?”

      “I assumed I would pay your hourly fee. Whatever it is.”

      “I charge eight hundred dollars a day.” Jane hoped Paul Peavey didn’t notice the flush that crept up her neck. She had never asked for that sum of money before. She had never asked for any money before, when people had asked her to intervene. She was deeply skeptical about Peavey’s offer and hoped by naming the largest sum she dared, he would have second thoughts.

      He did not. “Fine, fine.” Peavey stood, leaning across the desk to shake her hand. “Ten o’clock Monday, then?”

      “Let me check my calendar. I’ll call to confirm later this afternoon.” There was nothing on her calendar for Monday morning. Of that Jane was certain. But she needed time to think Peavey’s offer through.

      “Thank you. I look forward to hearing from you.”

      Jane escorted the young man to the multipaned glass door of the old porch and watched him head down the walk. “My goodness,” she said as he retreated. “There’s a new one.” She glanced at the time on her phone and picked her pocketbook up off the desk. She didn’t have time to consider the young man’s proposition right away. She had to hotfoot it around the corner to Helen Graham’s house or she’d be late for bridge.

      * * *

      “And this man wants to pay you?” Across the bridge table, Phyllis Goldstein arched an eyebrow at Jane.

      “Wants to pay you for what?” Helen Graham entered through her swinging kitchen door, posture perfect, her hair in the pageboy she had worn since Jane had met her thirty-nine years earlier. She placed a tray laden with a pitcher of cold tea, tall glasses filled with ice cubes, lemon wedges, and sweeteners on the sideboard in the living room.

      “That’s the rub,” Jane answered. “I’m not exactly certain for what. Something about a problem at Walden Spring, the over-fifty-five community in Concord he’s in charge of.”

      “So Paul did phone you.” Irma Brittleson spoke from the vestibule inside Helen’s front door. The windows and tiled floor in the tiny space added an echoey quality to her voice. She’d let herself in, as they all had. It was a ritual, no matter which of their homes they played in. The last to arrive was responsible for latching the door.

      “Phoned and came by,” Jane answered.

      “Good. I’m glad he took my recommendation.”

      Jane shifted her chair to face Irma. “Why did you send him to me?”

      “Because—”

      “Goodness, we’re getting ahead of ourselves.” Helen had returned from the kitchen with a plate of chocolate cookies, fresh from the oven, smelling like heaven. “Let’s play cards.”

      The women sat, the cards were dealt. The day was warm, but happily the humidity was low, and a breeze moved the sheer curtains in Helen’s first-floor windows.

      “News of the Week in Review,” Phyllis said, in another tradition as old as the game. “Hostess first.”

      Helen spoke, as she always did, about her husband, Hugh, and her children. Her older two were married, the parents of a brood of grandchildren. Helen’s third child, Lizzie, was thirty and single. Lizzie’s engagement to a most unsuitable man had been originally responsible for Jane’s growing reputation as someone who could help out with problems that, while vexing or frightening, weren’t appropriate for the police or other authorities. When Helen had described Lizzie’s fiancé as “dead behind the eyes,” Jane, who’d been a little at sea after her retirement, decided to investigate. It hadn’t taken much to find his other two fiancées and his “late” mother living on the other side of Cambridge. Jane had been the one to warn him off, too, reasoning it was better that he break Lizzie’s heart sooner rather than run her through the wood chipper later. Helen had been grateful, and she had talked. A lot.

      Jane’s reputation had grown. All winter and spring, people had made their way down the flagstone walk to Jane’s office.

      Gerri McLaughlin needed help switching from her hairdresser to the one in the next chair. During an unexpected absence, the other hairdresser had done Gerri’s cut and color. The resulting hairdo had a new bounce and shine that had added a bounce to Gerri’s step as well. She’d urged her original hairdresser to re-create it, but without success.

      Every woman knew ending a relationship with the person who did your hair was fraught. It was a professional arrangement,

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