“How old are you, Bea?” he asked, opening the book and looking from page to page. “You never asked me that.” Her voice was clear and rather high.
“Asking now.”
“Fifty-three.”
“I’ll be damned!”
“Why? Didn’t a woman ever tell you her right age before?”
He gazed at her and his lips twitched. “Sure. Once. I thought it was going to land me in prison, too. She was seventeen.”
“Your dissolute ways!” the green eyes flickered.
“I was kind of surprised,” he said quietly, “because you’re a year older than me. That’s all.”
“Oh.” She looked at the Door. “From you, that’s a compliment.”
“Right. We’re going to do some work. An editorial.”