He didn’t seem in the mood for a chat so I settled myself in the sitting room, waiting for him to bring in breakfast. I tried not to think about why he was being quiet. I thought he could at least thank me again for the evening at the theater. As I sat there, hearing him thump around in the kitchen making me breakfast, I wondered if, after I left England, I would ever find someone like him in America. A man who knew how to take care of a woman. A man who read books. A man, period. Maybe Dave would prove to be the last man in my life. What a horridly sour note to end on. Sitting there musing on the possibilities of my future, I couldn’t help but peruse the bookshelf of first editions. As my eyes wandered over the titles, I came upon Winnie-the-Pooh, the book Howard had been reading when he died. I was sorry he hadn’t cared for the little bear, but knew he was not alone. Dorothy Parker, under her pseudonym Constant Reader, wrote a famous review of The House at Pooh Corner, a line of which read: “And it is that word ‘hummy,’ my darlings, that marks the first place in The House at Pooh Corner at which Tonstant Weader fwowed up.”
