“How is Danny, Marta? Is he still drawing those spaceships?”
“He is, sir. Now he adds aliens.”
“Good. Tell him I want to see one.”
A week before Mr. Whitaker died, Danny drew him a rocket surrounded by green aliens. Mr. Whitaker taped it to the refrigerator himself. I was remembering that moment when the front door slammed and Julian entered the foyer. I had met Mr. Whitaker’s son only a few times during eighteen years. His father used to sit near the telephone every Sunday evening, waiting for calls that almost never came. Julian glanced at me without recognition.
“It’s Mary, isn’t it? Or Mara?”
“Marta, sir.”
“Right. I’ve been reviewing my father’s affairs. Meet me in the study in ten minutes.”
He walked away before I could respond. Mr. Whitaker had once promised that I would always be cared for, but I had assumed he was merely comforting an aging housekeeper. I straightened my apron and entered the study, where Julian stood behind his father’s desk, tapping a white envelope against his palm.
