first baby.”
“Pooh again. I’ve loved Roberto a long time and you know it. Are you jealous, Jacob?”
“No. Just curious. I suppose that injunction you laid on me on our wedding day still applies? It occurs to me that, with respect to the day you mentioned, Bob had opportunity before, during, and after.”
“Is that all it takes, dear? Just opportunity?” (Just about, twin!) She grinned at him and wrinkled her nose. “Sweetheart, all I will admit is the possibility that Roberto’s name might be in the hat. But it could have been Finchley. Or Hubert. Or dear Judge Mac. You and Alec were awfully busy that day—but I think you’ll find that Mac adjourned court at his usual hour…and I wasn’t home until much later.”
“Is that a confession?”
“Well, there might be a confession in there somewhere.”
“Quit pulling my leg, my love. There are only two sorts of wives. Those who cheat, and those who have their husbands’ friendly cooperation, in which case-”
“Isn’t there a third sort?”
“Eh? Oh, you mean faithful wives. Oh, certainly. So I’ve heard. But in my twenty years of general practice, much of it divorce cases, I encountered so few of that sort—none I felt certain about—that I cannot venture an opinion. Wives technically faithful form so small a part of the sample that I can’t evaluate them. People being what they are, a rational man should be satisfied if his meals are on time and his dignity not affronted. What I was trying to say is, that if you ever want my friendly cooperation, don’t assault my credibility with a wet firecracker such as Hubert. Judge Mac I could believe. Tom Finchley is a very masculine person too, and one who bathes regularly—even though he sometimes abuses the sacred English tongue in a manner which causes me to flinch. Bob Garcia shows your good taste. But, please, darling, don’t expect me to believe that Hubert’s name could be in the hat.” (Twin, Jake knows us too well. Better not try to fool him too much.) (Ever hear of a ‘red herring,’ love?)
“Very well, sir; I’ll take Hubert’s name out of the hat. That still leaves endless possibilities, does it not? And I will try always to respect your dignity. But, speaking of meals on time, I had better get busy or your dinner will be late.”
“Why not just cold cuts and such when we feel like it and heat a tin of soup? I was thinking of a nap.”
“Shall I join you, sir?”
“I said ‘nap,’ sweetheart. Sleep. A nap with you is not restful. Old Señor Jacob needs-a Siesta.”
“Yes, sir. May 1 finish quickly what I was saying? We can take care of anyone who wants to retire, or wants another job, or wishes to stay on with Hugo. But I am hoping that some of them might come with us as crew in our trimaran or whatever. Especially if they’ve been to sea before and know something about it.”
“Finchley does. He was sent up for smuggling or some such.”
“I was hoping that all of my mobiles except Hugo—and Rockford, if you want him—might decide to sail with us. They are all strong and able, and not much family problem. Fred’s wife split some months back, Dabrowski has no children at home, and Olga might be willing to be a chambermaid—stewardess, I should say—if she likes to sail; she’s insisted on doing most of the cleaning and such here even though she doesn’t have to. As for the Finchleys, Tom is just what we need—It wasn’t smuggling drugs; they were running arms into Central America as I recall, and he was first mate—and Hester Finchley is a good cook. Eve is no problem, she already knows how to read and write and do arithmetic—and if they tell her about this, she’ll be teasing her parents to take the job; all kids want to travel. Dear? If you are going in, would you see who’s on guard at the lift, and ask him to dig out Finchley? He may know something about trimarans.”
“I think he has the watch now. Shall I chuck you a robe?”