“I’d have come to the village, Bill. You didn’t have to come all the way up.”
Hadley handed him a big pile of mail wrapped in string. “From the States, looked important.”
“Well, thanks for the trouble.”
“No trouble.”
“Can I offer you a cup of tea? Kettle’s on. Take the chill out…”
“Wish I could, but I haven’t the time. Next week.”
“Well, ta, Bill.”
“Ta, Neal.”
He watched the postman pedal down the track and then he checked out the sky. It might snow before nightfall. Hardin would be bringing the sheep in early. He’d stop in for tea.
He went back into the cottage and looked at the mail. A postcard from Graham; another letter from Allie, who was getting out in a week and going to a halfway house. A journal on eighteenth-century lit. A letter from a don at Oxford extending permission to use the archives. Sports Illustrated. Ten of them, and bless you, Graham. An envelope with Diane’s return address on it.
I told you not to do that, Graham, but thanks.
He set the letter down unopened and went back to his book. Maybe he’d open it later, when he had a scotch or two to help him. Maybe not.
He was lonely, but he was used to that. He had his books to read.