When I first heard the name Lester Atwell, I was sure I knew it from somewhere, and that he had to be famous. I was wrong. I had gotten him confused with Hollywood’s Golden Age actor, Lionel Atwell.

Lester was much handsomer than the famous movie star, and never having thrown scandalous parties attended by underage nymphs, he was also much more of a gentleman.

I met him through my late husband, Charlie King. Both were members of their church’s confraternity. Since I was brought up Jewish, morphed into a happy-go-lucky Atheist, and married a Roman Catholic, I had no idea what a confraternity was. I still have no clue.

Charlie introduced me to his friend because I was nibbling around the edges of literature, and Lester was already a published author. Charlie, always my champion, had decided that Lester should give me a helping hand. So one fine night, I found myself sitting on a sofa in his living room, sipping tea, and marveling that a man so elegant and accomplished would be taking the time to help me.

He was doing it, of course, for Charlie. Anyone with a grain of sense loved my husband, and Lester had more sense than most.