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“Hello,” she said.
“You may safely talk to me,” he said.
“How’s that?”
“I’m the godfather of the new rug rat,” Matt said.
That got a smile.
“Have you got a name, godfather?”
“Matt Payne.”
She gave him her hand.
“Susan Reynolds,” she said. “I was Daffy’s big sister at Bennington.”
“That must have been a job.”
That got him another smile.
“Can I get you a drink?” Matt asked.
“Why not?” Susan Reynolds said.
“What?”
“They have Chablis.”
“Don’t go away.”
“We’ll see.”
He went to the upstairs bar and ordered a Chablis and a scotch and soda, no ice, for himself, and returned to Susan Reynolds.
“Thank you,” she said.
“You’re not from here, are you?” Matt said.
“Now you sound like Chad.”
“How’s that?”
“A pillar of Philadelphia society, surprised at meeting a barbarian within the gates.”
“I didn’t mean it that way. But I’ve never seen you around before. I would have noticed.”
“Harrisburg,” she said. “Outside Camp Hill.”
“Hello,” a female voice said behind him.
“Miss Reynolds, may I introduce my mother and father?” Matt said. “Mother, Dad, this is Susan Reynolds.”
Matt’s mother did not look her forty-five years. She had a smooth, tanned, unwrinkled complexion and a trim body. It was often said that she looked at least fifteen years younger than her husband, a tall, well-built, dignified, silver-haired man in his early fifties.
“How do you do?” Patricia Moffitt Payne said. “Daffy’s told me about you.”
“You’re not supposed to call her Daffy,” Matt said.
