“I’d like that,” I said sincerely.
“Yes, I do. Have you known him long, Dr. Whitaker?
“Windy. You must call me Windy, please. And yes, I’ve known Bennett Boyle a long time. I must say, I was quite amused the other day ... the plant drama, you know what I mean? Brilliant way to handle the situation, Mrs. Grant, just brilliant. Perfect way to work with Bennett.”
“B.J.? Oh, heavens no!” laughed Winston.
“I didn’t mean to ...” I said quickly.
“Allison.” I almost spat it out.
“Jabberwocky? From Through the Looking Glass? The poem by Lewis Carroll?”
He looked at me squarely for a long moment. “How old do you think I am?”
I studied his face, his light blue eyes set between long, but neatly trimmed thick shock-white hair and an equally thick white mustache. Bushy white eyebrows drooped over his eyelids and nearly met in the middle. Ben Franklin bifocals rested on the end of his rather pinkish nose. His facial features were soft and rounded. He wore a light brown linen suit, darker brown vest, heavily starched white dress shirt replete with gold cufflinks— miniature windmills, no less — and his usual bow tie, pocket watch and chain. Lewis Carroll’s White Rabbit came to mind, the one who led Alice down the rabbit hole to Wonderland.