Page 7 of Theo of Golden

Their eyes met.

“I thought maybe you’d bought the picture, like you said you were going to do a month ago. And I thought maybe you’d gotten someone to write in their very best handwriting on this two-dollar paper, and I halfway expect that you’ll be sitting at the fountain on Thursday. Am I right?”

Derrick blushed and grinned. “I wish you were. And I’m sorry I’ve been dragging my feet, but I promise I didn’t write the letter. You don’t really think you should meet the guy, do you?”

“Only if you agree. But I’d like to. We don’t have anything on the calendar for Thursday night. I say we show up, meet the mysterious stranger, and then go somewhere for supper and admire the girl in the picture frame.”

She laughed, then walked around the counter, stood behind Derrick, wrapped her arms around his neck, and nuzzled his cheek.

“I don’t feel very comfortable about this,” he whispered.

“I totally understand. And I’m glad you love me enough to worry about it. But do this for me: read the letter three more times, with no distractions. If you don’t think we should go after that, we won’t go. The risk seems pretty minimal, if you ask me. It’ll be in broad daylight, people everywhere, and if we don’t like what we see at the fountain, we don’t even have to go there, right? We can take binoculars and do surveillance from a hundred yards away and then decide what to do. OK? This might be a story we tell our children someday. Now, leave and I’ll fix something for supper.”

CHAPTER 5

Derrick did as Minnette requested.

After washing the dishes and making a couple of phone calls, he took the curious letter to his office, a large closet with an old desk and chair where he sometimes retreated to study, pay bills, or answer emails.

In the low light of a table lamp, he read the letter, his skepticism on high alert.

And again.

And once more.

There was, Derrick had to admit, an undeniable sincerity, an innocence, a timidity, about it. Even humor: “exquisitely handsome 86-year-old man.” With each reading, his defenses softened, but he remained wary. It was disquieting that the writer had been so guarded about his identity, that he had gone to considerable pains to identify, locate, and reach out to a very attractive young woman, and that he presented so many questions that could not be answered.

What a baffling epistle.

Later that night, Derrick and Minnette lay in bed, talking.

“OK, so what do you think?” she asked.

“I did what you asked. I read it three times, and I’m still concerned.”

“How concerned?”

“Not much, really. You gotta admit, it’s pretty weird, but unless I have nightmares between now and Thursday or change my mind for some other reason, I guess I feel the same as you. This defies my cautiousness and, my god, this is my wife I’m talking about, but I think there really might be an old man who really does just want to give you a gift, though I can’t imagine why. So, we show up Thursday, stand at a safe distance from the fountain, and see what we see. If there’s not a heather-green flat cap at the fountain, or if we see the cap and it’s on the head of a wild man, we call the police. Does that seem like the right approach? Have we lost our minds?”

Minnette snickered. “Counselor, are we actually thinking of doing something risky? The CPA and the lawyer? The two highly cautious, supremely rational type A’s? Just think, we might actually meet a sincerely kind human being. There don’t seem to be many of those around these days.”

Derrick kissed Minnette. “I get to sleep with one every night.” He paused. “One more thing. I’m going to call your Uncle Asher tomorrow. Since he did the portrait, maybe he’ll know something about the letter. He might even be part of this whole thing. I still think this might be a prank of some kind.”

Minnette nodded her approval. “That makes sense.” She rolled toward him, a smile in her eyes. “You know, Mr. Prentiss, this never would have happened if you’d bought the picture when you said you were going to.”

“Touché. Goodnight, Mrs. Prentiss.”

“Night.”

“Hey, by the way, what in the world is a ‘flat cap’?”

“Google it. Night.”

In the studio of Asher Glissen, the portrait artist, the phone rang. He rarely allowed it in the studio when he was working, but he was expecting a call about a new commission. He looked at the screen and read the name. It was not the anticipated call, but he answered it anyway.

“Well, good morning, Derrick. How’s my favorite nephew-in-law?”

Derrick chuckled. “Your only nephew-in-law is doing fine this morning, thank you.”