"Gretchen," she said. "Just Gretchen."

"Gretchen, how is he? I didn't know about his accident until today, or I would have sent flowers or a card—"

"Oh, honey, we don't need flowers. There have been so many deliveries we don't know what to do with them all. And we've tried to keep it quiet about the accident. Churchill says he doesn't want anyone making a fuss over him. I think it embarrasses him to death, what with the cast and the wheelchair—"

"A leg cast?"

"A soft one for now. In two weeks he'll get a hard cast. He had what the doctor said was..." She squinted in concentration. "A comminuted fracture of the tibia, and the fibula broke clean through, and one of his ankle bones is busted too. They put eight long screws in his leg, and a rod on the outside they'll take off later, and a metal plate that'll stay in him for good." She chuckled. "He'd never make it through airport security. Good thing he's got his own plane."

I nodded a little but I couldn't speak. I tried an old trick to keep from crying, something Marva's husband, Mr. Ferguson, had once told me about. When you think you're about to

cry, rub the tip of your tongue against the roof of your mouth, back where the soft palate is. As long as you do that, he'd said, the tears wouldn't fall. It worked, but barely.

"Oh. Churchill's as tough as they come," Gretchen said, clicking her tongue as she saw my expression. "You don't need to worry about him, honey. It's the rest of us you should be concerned about. He'll be laid up for at least five months. We'll all be crazy by then."

The house was like a museum, with wide hallways and towering ceilings, and paintings with their own little spotlights. The atmosphere was serene, but I was aware of things happening in distant rooms, phones ringing, some kind of tapping or hammering, the unmistakable clank of metal pots and pans. Busy unseen people doing their work.

We went into the largest bedroom I had ever seen. You could have fit my entire apartment inside it and had room to spare. Rows of tall windows were fitted with plantation shutters. The floor, made of hand-planed walnut, was covered in places with artfully faded kilim rugs that each cost the equivalent of a brand-new Pontiac. A king-sized bed with spiral-carved posters was positioned diagonally in one corner of the room. Another area featured a seating arrangement of two love seats and a recliner chair, with a flat-panel plasma TV on the wall.

My gaze immediately found Churchill, who was in a wheelchair with his leg elevated. Churchill, who had always been so well dressed, was wearing cut-up sweatpants and a yellow cotton sweater. He looked like a wounded lion. I reached him in a few strides and wrapped my arms around him. I pressed my lips against the top of his head, feeling the hard curve of his skull beneath the fleece of gray hair. I inhaled his familiar leathery smell and the hint of expensive cologne.

One of his hands came to the back of my shoulder, patting firmly. "No, no," came his gravelly voice. "No need for that. I'll heal up just fine. You stop that, now."

I wiped at my wet cheeks and straightened, and cleared my tear-clotted throat. "So... were you trying some kind of Lone Ranger stunt or what?"

He scowled. "I was riding with a friend on his property. A jackrabbit jumped out from a patch of mesquite and the horse spooked. I went head over heels before I could blink."

"Is your back okay? Your neck?"

"Yes, it's all fine. Just the leg." Churchill sighed and grumbled. "I'll be stuck in this chair for months. Nothing but crap on TV. I have to sit on a plastic chair in the shower. Everything brought to me, can't do a damn thing for myself. I'm sick and tired of being treated like an invalid."

"You are an invalid," I said. "Can't you try to relax and enjoy the pampering?"

"Pampering?" Churchill repeated indignantly. "I've been ignored, neglected, and dehydrated. No one brings my meals on time. No one comes when I holler. No one fills my water jug. A lab rat lives better than this."

"Now, Churchill," Gretchen soothed. "We're all doing our best. It's a new routine for everyone. We'll get the way of it."

He ignored her, clearly eager to air his grievances to a sympathetic listener. It was time for his Vicodin. he said, and someone had set it so far back on the bathroom counter, he hadn't been able to reach it. "I'll get it," I said immediately, and went into the bathroom.

The enormous space was lined with terra-cotta tiles and copper-flecked marble, with a half-sunken oval bathtub in the center. The walk-in shower and window were made entirely of glass blocks. It was lucky the bathroom was so big, I thought, in light of Churchill being wheelchair-bound. I found a cluster of brown medicine bottles on one counter, along with an ordinary plastic Dixie cup dispenser that looked out of place in the magazine-perfect surroundings. "One or two?" I called out. opening the Vicodin.

"Two."

I filled a cup with water and brought the pills to Churchill. He took them with a grimace, the corners of his mouth gray with pain. I couldn't imagine how much his leg must be hurting, his bones protesting the new arrangement of metal rods and screws. His system must have been overwhelmed with the prospect of healing so much damage. I asked if he wanted to rest, I could wait for him, or come back some other time. Churchill replied emphatically he'd had enough resting. He wanted some good company, which had been in short supply lately. This with a meaningful glance at Gretchen, who replied serenely that if a person wanted to attract good company, he had to be good company.