Mr. Valera, who regularly threatened me with “Call me Herb or I’ll call you Ms. Hamilton,” finished climbing the stairs, shut the door, took off his knit hat, and banged an inch of snow onto the entry rug. His patrician silver hair did not, as my curly-haired mop would have, bounce in all directions at once. No, his hair did as he commanded and stayed where he wanted it to. That demanded respect by itself, let alone his innate kindness, empathy, and intelligence.

“If I’d been smart,” he said, stuffing the hat into his coat pocket, “I would have continued my retirement habit and stayed in Florida until late April. But, no, I was lulled into complacency by the weather of the last week and thought, like a fool, that spring was here.”

Last week had been sunny and mild, with temperatures warm enough to make you think about hauling the patio furniture out of the garage. I’d seen some people do that, but most of us knew better. Personally, I didn’t move the snow scraper from my back seat into the trunk until Memorial Day.

My beloved fiancé had recently said that was because I simply forgot, but I said it was caution. Which made him ask why this was the one thing I was cautious about. Which made me start citing a list of Things That Made Minnie Hamilton Cautious, something that didn’t go well because once I’d listed (1) pending asteroid collision and (2) the library’s postage machine, I’d spent so much time defending those two items that I’d refused to make the list any longer.

Hunter interrupted my list reminiscing by introducing himself. Due to his varied schedule and because we were still revising bookmobile routes, this was the first time he’d been at this stop.

“Good morning, young man,” Mr. Valera said, shaking hands. “And call me Herb.”

Hunter nodded. “No problem, Mr. Herb.”

Mr. Valera gave him a pained look and I laughed. “You should be grateful,” I said. “We could be calling you ‘Your Honor.’ ”

“You’re a judge?” Hunter asked.

“Retired,” Mr. Valera said. “Kicked out to pasture by the state of Michigan when I was seventy, whether I wanted to or not.”

The Honorable Judge Herbert D. Valera had served as a downstate circuit court judge for decades. I had no doubt that he could tell story after story about courtroom drama, but he didn’t seem inclined, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. Circuit court judges had the power of sentencing life in prison, and making casual entertainment out of those circumstances didn’t seem appropriate.

“So.” Mr. Valera clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Did you get those books I ordered?”

“Mrr!”