says Dverna. It’s the middle of a Sunday morning and she’s reading the paper at the breakfast table, still in her robe, the one with the pink-cauliflowers design. She has her legs up under the table so her feet are on my chair. I move them to one side and perch next to them. “Lindsay.” Dverna looks blank for a moment. “Connor and Elsa’s kid,” I say. Her face clears. “Oh, that Lindsay. You should have said. The guilty passion of your youth. She must be grown up by now, isn’t she?” “She’s only three, four years younger than I am.” Dverna becomes concerned. “What was she phoning about? Not good news – I can see that on your face. Nothing’s happened to Connor or Elsa, has it? They’re okay?” “They’re fine.” Dverna has met them perhaps half a dozen times, spoken with them lots on the phone.
