“Fan mail,” Van Houten answered as he sat down in the lounge chair.
Eighteen years’ worth of it. Can’t open it. Terrifying.
Yours are the first missives to which I have replied, and look where that got me. I frankly find the reality of readers wholly unappetizing.”
That explained why he’d never replied to my letters: He’d never read them.
I wondered why he kept them at all, let alone in an otherwise empty formal living room.
Van Houten kicked his feet up onto the ottoman and crossed his slippers.
He motioned toward the couch. Augustus and I sat down next to each other, but not too next.
“Would you care for some breakfast?” asked Lidewij. I started to say that we’d already eaten when Peter interrupted.
“It is far too early for breakfast, Lidewij.” “Well, they are from America, Peter, so it is past noon in their bodies.”
“Then it’s too late for breakfast,” he said. “However, it being after noon in the body and whatnot, we should enjoy a cocktail.
Do you drink Scotch?” he asked me. “Do I—um, no, I’m fine,” I said.
“Augustus Waters?” Van Houten asked, nodding toward Gus. “Uh, I’m good.”
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