A tall, nicely built young man with bright red, almost orange, hair got out and headed toward the house. She met him at the entry door. “Mrs. Trumbull? I’m Christopher Wrentham. I’d like to talk to you, if I may. Is this a bad time?” Victoria wasn’t sure whether this was a bad time or not. She was in the throes of composing her sonnet, but she was curious about this young man’s mission. Now that he was up close she could see his dark eyes and fine large nose. “What is it you need to speak to me about?” “A professor at Cape Cod University, Roberta Chadwick.” “Ah,” said Victoria. “Come in.” She ushered him into the cookroom and he waited politely for her to sit, then took a chair at right angles to hers. “This must seem presumptuous of me, but, well, I was told you’re a professor at Ivy Green College.” Victoria smoothed her hair. “Yes, adjunct professor.” He nodded. “I was also told you’re apprised of a certain situation.” Victoria folded her hands on the table.
