That was even more impressive than watching him, because he had dealt with every piece exactly as she would have. Impressive, and a little frightening—but she wasn't about to question a gift from God. "What do you do during the day, Chuck?"
Powell flushed. "Not much, I'm afraid. Read, mostly, between Mass and supper—and entertain myself, of course. It's fun, but I'd like to do something more … productive."
"Productive as in?"
"This sort of thing. I'm pretty good at it, I think, and you don't like it—maybe I could be your secretary, or aide, or whatever you'd want to call it?"
Cortin chuckled. "'Great minds' … You're more than pretty good, you're incredible—almost as if you were reading my mind. The job's all yours, with my thanks."
Powell flushed again. "It's easy—when we were so close to being one person, you wanted me—maybe all of us—to know you as well as we could. I can sort of put myself in your place, at least enough to handle routine things the way you would. And I enjoy doing it."
"As I said, it's all yours." Cortin handed him the invitation to Blackfeather. "I thought I ought to write this myself, and I'm never sure when I'll have time free, but I don't want it going out until we can be sure she'll get it after the Bains arrive. Can you handle that?"
"No problem." Powell took the paper. "They'll be arriving a week from Saturday, right?"
"That's what I understand, yes."
"Mail it a week from today, then." Powell clipped a note to the invitation and put it in the middle basket of her stack. "Okay, anything else?"