“It was a beautiful day, Mr. Dolan. Salem was fun, too.”
“You know,” he said as he walked toward the door and turned after he opened it, “I think that out of the office, you can call me Ken.”
“I’ll try,” I said. “No promises.”
He laughed. “I just have to get something in my room. I’ll meet you downstairs for a cocktail before you two go off.”
I wondered how Liam would react if he knew his father had come in to cross-examine me. I hoped he didn’t know. I hurried out and down the stairs. Mrs. Wakefield was standing there, as if she had been assigned to wait for me.
“Liam is in the den,” she said. “Right this way.”
“That’s all right. I know where it is,” I told her.
She turned, surprised.
“I was here last night.”
“Oh?”
“It was late.”
She looked more thoughtful than upset about it. “Yes, well, when you’re young, you can burn the candle at both ends, but when you’re older, you realize you use up the candle twice as quickly that way.”
Even though she didn’t have to show me where the den was, she continued to walk alongside me, step for step. In some ways, she reminded me of a protective guard dog, keeping one careful eye on anyone who approached her master.
“I understand you’ve been here for quite a long time,” I said as we walked down the wide, grayish-black slate corridor.
She paused. “Yes. In a world where there is such little permanence and commitment, I imagine I’m a bit of a relic.”
I paused and smiled. “That can’t be true for a city like Quincy that has held on to its history so dearly. I haven’t been anywhere that has such a sense of the permanent.”
She almost smiled, too, but settled for a short nod to illustrate that she liked my answer. When we arrived at the den, she nodded and continued on. Liam was standing in front of the bar. He turned quickly when I entered.
“Wow, you make casual look like elegant,” he said, rushing over to kiss me on the cheek.
“Thank you.”
“A glass of wine, maybe?”
“Yes, white. Do you have a Chardonnay?”
“Do we have a Chardonnay?” He opened the glass door of the wall wine cooler to show me what looked like more than a hundred different bottles. “And one from California, too. Maybe you’ve heard of it.”
He put it on the bar. I had heard of it.
“It’s good.”
He began to open the bottle, keeping his eyes on me.
“What?” I said.
“I can’t help staring at you. I hope you don’t mind. Trying to get me to stop is hopeless, anyway.”
“As long as you don’t do it while you’re driving,” I said.
“Yes.” He popped the cork. “I’m glad you’re all right. Is that what he was doing at the time?”
“No. Something else distracted him.”