“That looks like a job for a pair of strong hands,” a man’s voice floated down from above her.

She looked up with a tired smile and saw a courtly man in a dark, well-tailored suit and elegant tie smiling down at her. He looked to be in his mid-60’s, had a commanding air, and extended a hand with well-manicured nails to Bette, as if to offer to shake hers.

She extended her hand to him and introduced herself, “You’re Mr. Green, right? Bette Porter-Kennard, in case you may have forgotten.”

“Little chance of that, Bette,” he said, with a small smile. “But to you I should be Andrew.”

They shook hands firmly and he let go of Bette’s hand seconds later, but in a friendly manner.

“Are you intent on continuing that story about massaging your sister’s feet to keep her circulation going when you were both trapped in that cave when you were teenagers?’ Bette asked with a tired smile, recalling the story she’d overheard while standing at the periphery of a circle surrounding this apparently important man.

“I am, yes,” he chuckled. He bent down on one knee next to her and gently grasped one of her feet, asking “May I?” As her brows rose slowly, he pulled up one of her slim ankles and laid the back of her heel on his knee. He started to massage her feet, talking to her softly in a soothing baritone voice about a sailing trip he and Peter had taken two years ago, as they barely escaped the outer edge of a storm that later walloped the Caribbean.

At first, Bette was trying to keep a conversation with him going, but she soon couldn’t even keep her head up, and rested her head against the back of the sofa. Not even a minute later, she started to doze off.

Just then Jackson saw Bette and the unexpected sight of Andrew Green, on bended knee, massaging Bette’s feet. Despite his own fatigue, he hustled to them.

“Mr. Green!” he exclaimed.

Andrew put a finger on his lips in a shushing motion. “I think she’s finally let her guard down and allowed herself to sleep.”

“What are you…” Jackson started to ask him, in a stage whisper.