Henry Pitts, my landlord, was in the backyard in a T-shirt, shorts, and bare feet. He’d set up a ladder near the house and he was hosing out the rain gutters where a thick, nasty mat of wet leaves had collected over the winter. During the last big rain, small gushers had poured down on the porch outside the kitchen door, drenching anyone who dared to enter or leave.

I crossed the patio and stood there for a while, watching him work. The day was getting chilly and I marveled at his determination to cavort about in so few clothes. “Aren’t you going to catch your death of cold?”

Henry had turned eighty-eight on Valentine’s Day, and while he’s sturdy as a fence post, the fact remains he’s getting on in years. “Nope. Cold preserves most things, so why not me?”

“I suppose.”

The spray from the hose was creating an area of artificial rain so I stepped back out of range. He turned his hose in the opposite direction, inadvertently watering his neighbor’s shrubs. “You’re home early,” he remarked.

“I gave myself the afternoon off, or what’s left of it.”

“Hard day?”

I waggled my hand, indicating so-so. “I had a guy walk in and hire me for a day’s work. As soon as I said yes, I knew it was dumb.”

“Tough job?”

“More pointless than tough. He gave me five hundred dollars in cash and what can I say? I was seduced.”

“What’s the assignment?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Oh, good. I like it when you’re challenged. I’m just about done with this. Why don’t you stop by for a glass of wine and you can bring me up to speed?”

“I’d like that. There’s another issue up for grabs and we can talk about that, too.”

“Maybe you should stay for supper so we won’t feel rushed. I made corn bread and a pot of beef stew. If you come at five-thirty, I’ll have time enough to shower and change clothes.”

“Perfect. See you shortly.”

Henry is the only person alive I’d talk to about a client, with the possible addition of his sister, Nell, who’d be turning ninety-nine in December. His brothers, Charlie, Lewis, and William, were ninety-six, ninety-one, and ninety respectively, and all were going strong. Any talk about the frailties of the elderly has no bearing on them.

I let myself into the studio and dropped my shoulder bag on a kitchen stool. I moved to the sitting area, turning on a couple of lamps to brighten the room. I went up the spiral staircase to the sleeping loft, where I perched on the edge of the platform bed and pulled off my boots. Most days, my work attire is casual—jeans, a turtleneck, and boots or tennis shoes. I can add a tweed blazer if I feel the need to dress up. Though I’m capable of skirts and panty hose, they’re not my first choice. I do own one dress that I’m happy to say is suitable for most occasions. It’s black, made of a fabric so wrinkle-resistant, if I rolled it up and stored it in my shoulder bag, you’d never know the difference.