What he’s leading up to is my family—specifically my reaction to my sister’s uninvited and unexpected visit, and I glance at the time. I’d planned on heading to Logan by nine thirty but now I’m not sure what to do. Lucy says Dorothy might be late. Well it would be nice of my sister to let me know so Benton and I don’t race away from here and end up sitting outside the baggage area for hours.

“Bryce stopped by my office around four thirty to give me a ride to The Coop, to take me on any errands and then drop me off here,” I begin recounting what happened this afternoon. “And that was fine except he wouldn’t stop talking. I honestly couldn’t take it.”

“Talking about what?”

“That’s very difficult to reconstruct when it’s Bryce. It seems he’s convinced I don’t feel the same about him, that I don’t like him or want him around, and this predates today’s incident with the panty hose. Lately I’ve gotten the impression he has some strange notion that I’ve distanced myself and am thinking of firing him or who knows what.”

“Based on?” Benton slips on the reading glasses, parking them low on his straight narrow nose, his hazel eyes finding me over the top of the frames.

“Based on his repeated questions about what else he’d done wrong. He kept asking that when he was arguing with me in front of The Coop.”

“Were you arguing or was he?”

“I’ve always heard it takes two.”

Benton laughs. “It doesn’t when it’s him. Bryce is pretty good at playing both sides of the net.”

“I didn’t argue. I just resisted and denied, telling him I needed to go. He was so worried about the broiling heat, and here I was standing out in the middle of it because he wouldn’t leave me alone.”

“So in other words, he’s reacting to you.” Benton picks up the thickly bound wine list that was on top of his menu.

“As usual but it’s more extreme, it seems.”

“This may shape up to being one of those unfortunate situations that’s all about bad timing.” Benton turns several thick creamy pages, glancing at wines. “I hope not. But it was bad timing for you to get out of sorts with him while a detractor, possibly a stalker, was watching. Normally we could let it go, dismiss it as a deranged rambling. But the marijuana-leaf tattoo is a problem. If it wasn’t for that detail I wouldn’t give any credence to someone calling in what sounds like a completely frivolous complaint. I wouldn’t even bother listening.”

“What are you saying?” I reply. “And how did you know about the tattoo?”

But Benton turns another page in the wine list. He doesn’t answer.