“Hush little baby don’t say a word…” The weather had turned cold almost overnight, the late gales of November blowing icy off the strait, the last of the leaves clinging to the wet pavement, the trees skeletal against the gray sky. “Daddy’s gonna buy you a mockingbird…” Simon had a nice voice. Back when we were in school he even used to play a bit of guitar. We’d have people over to our place, a tiny apartment in one of the big, converted heritage houses near downtown. Friday nights of songs, soup and jugs of homemade wine. “And if that mockingbird don’t sing…” But that was a long time ago. I didn’t even know where his guitar was. Probably up in the attic somewhere. He broke off mid-line as I came into the living room, setting the two mugs down on the table. “You didn’t have to stop.” He smiled. “Well…Listen, Karen, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.” His tone was careful. Too careful. “What? Is it Sherry?” “No, it’s nothing like that.
