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“THANK YOU FOR the ride, George,” Verena said.
The driver turned into her driveway and stopped. “It’s my job, Miss Verena.” The well-built older man got out of the car and made his way to the trunk.
“I’ll help you with the bags,” she said, sliding out. Years ago, her father had hired George to ferry guests to and from the salon—the elderly, the city dwellers who didn’t drive, the sweet sixteen party-goers. He made product deliveries and airport runs, but more than that, he’d always been like an uncle to her, listening to her travel woes on her extensive travels to visit retail store buyers and conduct training across the country for them.
“Nonsense, it’s part of my exercise,” he said, hoisting the bags. “Makes lifting weights easier.”
“How’s your writing, George?”
“New detective b
