He assured me he did and would be along in a few minutes. I told him to look for me at the corner table by the register, then ended the call.

I was certainly curious to meet Mrs. Cartwright’s grandson. He had been mentioned several times but thus far hadn’t appeared. I wondered why he wanted to talk to me instead of, say, Teresa.

Then another question hit me. How did he get my cell number? I couldn’t remember giving it to his mother or his grandmother. I would have to find a tactful way to ask.

In the meantime I decided to get something to drink, so I ambled over to the refrigerated counter near the register and chose a bottle of still water. Diesel remained by the table while I got in line to pay.

The last person ahead of me in the queue dithered for a moment, scrambling through an oversized purse in search of her wallet. When she found it, she couldn’t decide whether to use her credit card or write a check. People like this—male or female—drove me nuts. The rest of her life must have been a sad trial if she couldn’t cope any better than this with what seemed like such an innocuous decision.

At last she left—she used her credit card, by the way—and I stepped up to the register.

“Bonjour, mon amour,” Helen Louise said with a wide smile. “I’d give you a big kiss if there weren’t people in line behind you.”

“Hello, sweetheart.” I mimed a kiss, and her smile grew even wider. “Maybe things will slow down in a few minutes, and we’ll have a chance to talk.” I handed her money for the water, and she tried to wave it away. I insisted, and she finally took it.

“As soon as I can,” she promised. She pulled a bowl from beneath the counter and handed it across to me. She kept one nearby for Diesel in case he was thirsty.

I resumed my seat at the table with what Laura would call my “goofy” smile in place. Helen Louise had that effect on me. It had taken me a while to realize the truth—and the depth—of my feelings for my dear friend, but now that I had, well, I occasionally felt like a gangly adolescent with his first crush. I poured water in the bowl and set it on the floor. Diesel sniffed at it, then started lapping it up. When he finished he curled up by my chair and closed his eyes.

Eugene Marter ought to be here any minute now, I reckoned while I sipped my own water. The buzz of numerous conversations swarmed around me, but I paid little attention. Perhaps three minutes later, the bell on the door chimed, and I looked up to see a youngish man, perhaps in his late thirties, walk in, stop, and look around.