“Where did this come from?” I asked as I dried myself. “The trunk?”
Hank stopped his own drying and looked at me seriously. “No. The trunk is just for—special stuff.”
“Oh,” I said. “Then—where?” I indicated the towel.
“The closet in my bedroom,” he said. “Didn’t you notice it?”
I shook my head. “No.”
When we had dried ourselves and were standing, towels wrapped around our waists, before the fire, he said, “All of the stuff in the trunk—is from Henry.”
“Oh?”
Hank’s face went a little red. “Yeah. I took it—from his room.”
I nodded and, reaching out took his hand and squeezed it. In return he looked at me gratefully and gave me a sad, slightly apologetic smile.
We didn’t dress, but sat together in the arm chair. I looked around the room.
“It’s a smallcottage,” I said, reflectively.
“Yeah. I guess. But it suits me.”
“Right. But, before you. Was there a caretaker before you?”
“Huh? Yeah. Old-man Branson.”