Ingrid sighed. She knew this was coming. She’d known ever since Edith’s first visit to the Wednesday afternoon Bingo game at the Guild. Crispin was desperate to be independent of his son again. Edith Baker, recently widowed and in her early 60’s, wealthy, and extremely well preserved was just the escape route Crispin sought.

“Cris, I’m quite sure that I won’t be taking part in any plan of yours. You’ll have to get on without me.”

“Oh but you’d enjoy it so! It’ll be a jolly good lark for you. How’d you fancy attending the next Senior’s Brunch with me as your very own escort?”

“I’d rather stay home and eat tacks.” said the ungrateful Ingrid.
“Oh come now! Be a sport. You know I’m one of the most sought after gentlemen there.”

Yet again, Ingrid was forced to admit that he was right. Like herself, Crispin retained a near perfect state of health. After a knee replacement four years ago, he’d been as spry on the dance floor as ever he had been in his youth. He’d also stayed remarkably fit for his age, and possessed an undeniably distinguished appearance. Additionally, his professed links to the nobility ensured that he was quite the favorite amongst the ladies of the Orange County Senior’s Guild.

“You’d be the envy of every unattached woman there Ingrid! Think of it won’t you?” he said in his most wheedlesome tones.

“I assume that your plan is to make Edith see how desirable you are by allowing her to observe the way you treat me?”

“Precisely! Women are all alike! They never see any value in a chap until another woman takes an interest. Suddenly a boring old bloke becomes an alluring man of mystery. It can’t fail.”

“No Crispin. I won’t do it, so there’s no use pestering me. You’ll have to find someone else.”

“But there’s no woman alive so heartless as you, old brick. Any other woman would be too susceptible to my charms, thus landing me in something of a pickle.”

Ingrid decided that she’d had enough. “Crispin, that’s donkey twaddle, and you know it. Drink your tea and leave.”

“Oh tosh. If you won’t do it, I suppose I’ll have to exercise the little grey cells and find some other way. You needn’t be so waspish.” Crispin muttered, stirring uncomfortably in his chair. It was only just eleven, and he wasn’t nearly ready to return to the family dwelling.

Not long afterward he did leave, having discovered that Ingrid was in a more than usually dour frame of mind. Ingrid shut the front door after him, thankful to see him gone at last. Old, she undeniably was. She was almost entirely alone in the world. But heartless? No. That she had never been. Life, she reflected, would have been far less difficult had she been so.

“He’s perfectly intolerable, but he’s nearly all that’s left.” She observed to her latest cat, Melchoir. “It’s absurd I know, but I really think I’d be quite lonely without him, irritating as he is.” She returned to her dormer room, determined to work out at least part of the short story she’d recently begun. Melchoir followed, and made himself an agreeable nuisance by climbing into her lap, purring, nudging, and insisting on being loved. “You’re not much of a Presbyterian, are you?” He began purring sonorously, and Ingrid decided he must be a Baptist or Pentecostal of sorts. He was far too demonstrative to be one of God’s Frozen Chosen.

Before she returned to her work, she had decided that nothing would keep her from attending the Senior's Brunch on Friday. Though she had no intention of aiding Crispin in his suit, she always found his romantic endeavors to be immensely entertaining.