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sometimes, but not very often, at least when Harry was around. He had hired her when Janet had left. |
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Flora Saint Quentin filled the bill. As MIC of the Eighth Weather Squadron, headquartered high on a hill overlooking Pepperell Air Force Base, Harry Driver had a multitude of responsibilities, mostly military but sometimes social. Flora filled the void created without a woman in the house. She kept the ramshackle old off-base unit squeaky clean, the pantry filled and happily attended to all those irritating and time-consuming little chores that Harry never seemed to get around to after Janet left. To Harry's way of thinking, "colorless" was a good word to describe Flora Saint Quentin. He thought of her as colorless and intellectually dull. Her hair was a mousy brown, tinged here and there with strands of telltale gray. Her eyes didn't fare much bettermuddy, without mirth and too often too sad. Harry suspected that the woman knew all of this, because she tried to hide the entire lackluster mishmash behind large round steel-rimmed glasses that tended to give some character to her otherwise featureless face. On occasion, she smiled. It wasn't much of a smile, but it was all she had. She was bestowing it upon him now as she handed him the coffee. |
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"You got in late," she observed. |
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