Hurrying through the inspection, Charly wrote up her notes and then set the file aside. Working quickly, she braided her hair and fastened it up as it had been yesterday. The fun hadn't even started and already it was over. Serves me right for trying to get the better of him.
When she approached the men again, she found they were deep in conversation, but stopped speaking as soon as they noticed her presence.
"Everything seems to be in order, Mr. McKinnon. I'd like to get on to the next one, if you don't mind. Goodbye, Mr. Thomas."
Throwing an arm around her shoulders, her uncle gave her a squeeze and said, "You don't need to pretend you don't know me, Charly. T. G. already knew we were related. Good luck with your job. I know you'll make a fine inspector."
Feeling like a little girl again, Charly muttered "Goodbye," again and headed for the vehicle. McKinnon sauntered along behind, grinning broadly.
Once in the car, Charly tried to get herself under control. For once, he had the upper hand and she didn't like the feeling. To make matters worse, the next farm was Harrison's. Should she come right out and ask if he was a director? It would make her look even more stupid. Maybe she'd recognize him when she saw him. Deciding to stay quiet, she drove off, hoping for the best.
She did recognize him as soon as she saw him. He had been one of the ones who had spoken up in her defence several times during the interview. Relaxing immediately, Charly chatted away with him as they toured his buildings and examined the wiring. The farm was in excellent condition and obviously paying for itself. But she checked everything over, knowing there were two directors watching her now.
It was again lunchtime when they were finished, and she decided to drive over to Bloomfield, before stopping for lunch. It was a small village but had an excellent restaurant, and the third farm was just outside of town.
Her salad in front of her, Charly became consumed by her curiosity. T. G. McKinnon. Tom Gregory? Timothy George? Terry Glenn? None of them fit, and she just couldn't stand it any longer.
"What does the T. G. stand for?" She looked across the table at McKinnon and wondered if he would answer her, or maintain his usual stony silence.
"My mother said it stood for `Thank God', because she had three daughters and my Dad wouldn't give up until he had a son. My birth certificate says Thomas Gordon, but I have to look at it now and then to remember, because I've never been anything but T. G. Satisfied?" He was almost smiling, as though he knew she had been sitting there trying to pin a name on him.