had never cared.
Whatever happened between them had been ancient history.
A few minutes later, a white van pulled into Monica’s driveway.
A young man got out carrying a toolbox.
He had visited several times that summer.
“Your plumber is back,” I said.
Monica glanced toward him.
“That’s what happens with old houses. Something is always breaking.”
The young man noticed us and waved.
Daniel waved back.
But then he stared at the man for another moment.
“What?” I asked.
Daniel rubbed his jaw.
“He reminds me of somebody.”
“Who?”
