He was wearing a Panama hat. “Hello, Thurkettle. What can I do for you?” After Willoughby left, I had fallen asleep with my head on the table. Now the wood grain was printed on my cheek. Thurkettle tried to smile, but only bared his teeth. He worked for the Maxwell family. Harley Maxwell, the family’s only son, was my friend at university. Thurkettle wasn’t their butler or chauffeur or gardener, but at one time or another I had seen him being all these things. The Maxwells spent their summers in Newport, just across the bay. Thurkettle tried to smile again, jaw muscles straining from the effort. “Mr. Maxwell is inviting you over for lunch.” “Why couldn’t he come here and invite me himself?” I looked over Thurkettle’s shoulder at the Ford in the driveway. “Mr. Maxwell is practicing his fly-fishing cast on the lawn, sir. He did not wish to be disturbed.” “I swear to God, Thurkettle. I don’t know how you put up with it.” Thurkettle’s smile flickered on and off, as if he was hooked up to some faulty electric current.
