Conley smiled as he watched the good-looking, dark-haired young man walk away. “It’s working perfectly so far, Alistair,” he said softly.
No, he wasn’t talking to a ghost, but to the memory of the man he had known and even loved, if only platonically, for more than fifty years. Then Alistair had learned that his cancer was terminal and he had only months to live—something even Conley could do nothing about. Soon after the diagnosis, Alistair had confided in his friend that he was worried about his grandson.
“He seems to have no ambition. No drive to do anything more than work a menial job, go home, and…Well, who knows what he does when he’s there. For certain he doesn’t go out and meet people or make friends, at least as far as I can tell.”
“Perhaps you should connect with him?” Conley
