I was walking my two dogs this afternoon when I caught a glance of a note on the windshield of a parked car. The note was written on yellow-lined notepad paper, the kind I used to scribble call notes on when I worked in sales. It was folded so that the writing was visible, so I saw that it was handwritten in blue ink. I deduced that it was written with a ballpoint pen because it didn’t have the inkiness of a fountain pen. I didn’t get close enough to read it, but I prefer it that way. Reading a note meant for someone else is a grievous validation in my book. Best not to know, I had my ideas anyway.
It was like watching the Cavendish home awake from a long slumber. A flurry of arms and legs prepared for the arrival of an unusual visitor. Upstairs, Ruth and Mathilda joked and japed as they labored to clean out the dust and cobwebs from one of the seldom-used guest rooms. In the doorway, a young girl, all elbows and scraped knees, appeared; She stood and watched silently while Ruth and Mathilda gossipped about the visitor.