His eyebrows raised in surprise, and then he shrugged with studied unconcern. "Lots of young gals hanker after me," he admitted without an overabundance of pride. "I choose the gals I want, they don't choose me." His words were accompanied by a slight tilt of his head toward the circle of men, where her husband now stood ready to take his turn.
If Esme had any qualms about her plan, Hightower's implied criticism of Cleav quelled them. She nodded slowly. "This young woman," she said with careful reluctance, "the one I'm speaking of, is not one that would be considered one of the bunch.'"
"Oh?" Armon wasn't exactly sure what she meant. His expression was now openly curious. "Well, who in the world is she, this special female?"
Esme smiled slyly. "I'm really not at liberty to say."
"Why not?"
With a deep, heartfelt sigh, Esme continued with feigned hesitance. "This young woman confessed to me how she has loved you from afar for years."
Esme stopped momentarily to let her words sink in. "For years she's been dreaming of you, but you've never approached her."
"So now she wants to approach me?"
Esme appeared horrified. "Oh, no! She's much too genteel to ever speak to you herself."
Armon's eyes brightened. "So she asked you to speak for her?"
"Certainly not!" Esme's tone indicated that she was appalled at the suggestion. "She would be horrified if she ever learned that I'd mentioned this to you." And then more quietly she added, "You must never breathe a word of it."
Armon began to tire of the game. "How do you expect me not to tell her, when I don't even know who she is?"
“Well, you don't expect me just to blurt out her name, do you?" Esme asked.
"How about a hint, then?"
Esme considered his suggestion carefully, as if she'd never thought of it herself. Finally she sighed, as if losing a battle with her conscience. "All right," she said. "I'll give you some hints, but I will not tell you if you are right or wrong."
"Fair enough." Armon struck the bargain easily.
"Let's see," Esme began. "She's a young woman who is exceptionally attractive."
"Must not be from Vader, then," Armon joked. When his chuckle was met by Esme's stony look, he backed down. "Okay," he said noncommittally.
"She's not seeing anyone at the present time, but she suffered a very recent loss of a sweetheart."
Armon's brow furrowed as if deep in thought. Esme looked at him hopefully, but the young man shook his head.
"Could be a lot of gals," he said.
"She—" Esme tried to think of something else to hint. Armon was dense. "Oh, she plays the piano."
Armon's grin was wry, and his answer was sarcastic. "Half the women in these hills think they can play the piano. A man don't look at the piano when he's thinking about a woman."
"Oh, for heaven's sake." Esme was clearly getting frustrated.
"She has red hair," she said with an edge of temper. If he couldn't get that, he must be a complete dolt.
"Red hair?" Armon looked at her as if she'd lost her mind. "I don't know any gals with red hair," he said.
"Of course you do!" Esme insisted.
"Well," he said, after thinking a moment, "there's that old whore down by Collins Crossing. But I'm pretty sure her red hair comes out of a bottle."
"Do you think such a woman would be a friend of mine?" Esme asked with fury.
"No, ma'am," Armon answered. "But you're the one that brought up the red hair, and she's the only red-haired woman I know."
