|
But at the next station, the group left the car and one of the boys called out, "'Ave a good day Yank."
"You have one too," he responded with a smile.
As the train pulled out, they waved to him and he waved back.
From his clothes, they could tell he was an American and probably wanted to speak to him, but were too shy to open a conversation. He chided himself for not having taken the initiative and going to them. But that was not part of his character. Though he could mingle with people when the situation required at cocktail parties, company events, and those mandatory social occasions such as weddings and funerals, he much preferred to be either alone or in the company of someone whose interests were close to his own. As the president of his own company, he had often as many as a hundred people on his staff and never less than half that number. Often they spoke different languages. He was fluent in several. But when the day's work was done, he retreated into his own world that consisted mainly of music. He played the flute when he was on site and the viola when he was home. He attributed his linguistic ability to his "ear for music."
From the train schedule, he knew he was one stop away from Portsmouth, an eighteen-minute jaunt. Time to reflect and anticipate on what he was about to see. The previous evening, after the last meeting and the obligatory drink in a nearby pub, he went to a bookstore before returning to his hotel and bought a small book that describe the role that the HMS Victory played in the Battle of Trafalgar. Later, before he'd gone to bed, he'd read the book through. In addition to having been Nelson's flagship, she had been so badly damaged by enemy fire that she had to be towed back to England. But the British had won the battle and Napoleon's dream of invading England had been totally destroyed.
After the eighteen minutes passed, he left the train and walked briskly toward the Dockyard Exhibit Center to buy his ticket for the tour of the HMS Victory.
# # #
She queued up with a dozen other visitors in front of a uniformed, red-faced, burly man sporting a gray walrus moustache, with Berryman etched in white letters on his name tag on the right side of his chest. A former navy chief from his uniform, but now a pensioner and guide. She came for the day from Waterlooville, where her husband, Adrian, a system analyst for IBM, was attending a two-week training session. Bored of watching the tele and reading books and magazines, she'd decided to drive to Portsmouth and take in the sights. The late morning would be the HMS Victory, and the afternoon, the Mary-Rose, King Henry the Eighth's folly. It was called that because when it was launched it immediately sank. It had been salvaged five years before and now it was being washed down with fresh water until the experts tending it would pronounce it ready to be restored. She'd gotten that information from a brochure she'd picked up in the lobby of the Holiday Inn where she and Adrian were staying. Had she wanted to go, she could have gone up to London on a company-arranged trip for a day of shopping. But she'd had enough of the company wives palavering about company matters, their children, and their homes. She needed a few hours away from anything connected with the company. Though she hadn't any particular reason for going to Portsmouth, other than it was a short distance away from Waterlooville, she decided to go there.
Waiting for the tour to start was a cold business. The earlier sullen sky had given way to low scudding clouds, some of which were very gray, while others looked very much like newly washed fleece. And where there weren't clouds there were huge patches of bright sunlight. But a strong northeast wind was blowing and that made it feel very cold, indeed.
Warmly dressed in gray woolen slacks, a heavy white turtle-neck sweater, a three-quarter length coat, a brown scarf, and a brown-Tweed cap, she stamped her feet and thought how good a hot cup of tea would make her feel, especially if it were accompanied with a warmed blueberry scone.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we will begin our tour when the last member of our group joins us," the tour-guide announced in a voice that matched his build. "The gentlemen called ahead and said he'd be along directly."
From the burr in his voice, she guessed that he was originally from Scotland or close to the border. Her accent betrayed her mid-land background--Stokes-on-Trent, where she and Adrian lived. Even as the tour-guide finished speaking, she turned to see for whom they'd been waiting.
He came striding toward them. A tall, broad-shouldered, gray-bearded man. An American, she guessed, from the cut of his clothes and the wide brim, light tan Stetson slightly tilted to the left.
Before he reached the group, the guide cleared his throat and began his spiel, welcoming everyone and explaining that for the next two and a half hours he would lead them through a remarkable journey back to the days of "fighting sail." He asked them to be very careful, "going down and up the companion ways, as we go from deck to deck." With a wave of his hand, he signaled the group to follow him.
# # #
He'd first seen the ship from the road that led from the train station to the Dockyard Center. Its bulk was obvious and its mast, spars, and rigging looked very much like a spider's web, though more substantial--as if it trapped the clouds, the blue sky, and bright shafts of sunlight in its web. But as he moved closer, the bulk grew in mass and became a black painted hull. The combination of the hull, the masts, their attendant spars and rigging, silently spoke of an awesome power to catch the wind and force it to do your bidding. It was as if he could hear the sound of a huge orchestra expressing that power with the crashing sound of kettledrums. The string section playing low and fast, while the horns and woodwinds joined with a mighty blast of sound in a requiem to the wood, cordage, and men who had given her life . . .
He was so involved with his orchestration of what he saw that he failed to realize that he moved behind a petite woman, who had some difficulty stepping on to the gangplank, and almost collided with her. In an instant he understood her difficulty and without asking, he put his hands around her waist and lifted her on to the gangplank.
She looked back at him and with a hint of a smile said, "Short legs."
"No problem," he said with a chuckle. "I have long ones."
She smiled and continued to make her way up the deck.
In the few moments that they faced one another, he saw the freckles on her face, her startling blue eyes and blond eyebrows. Thirty-five. Forty at the most, he told himself, following close after her should she need his help again.
# # #
They gathered on the foredeck at the mainmast, and listened to the guide reel off facts about the ship. "Her over-all length from bowsprit to taffrail is sixty-nine meters. Her displacement is three thousand five hundred and fifty-six tons. A total of twenty-six miles of cordage was used to rig the ship. She carried approximately five thousand four hundred and six-eight square meters of sail. It took a total of eight hundred and twenty-men to man her. You'll notice the deck and everything else is painted red. All of the decks below are painted the same way. The red is to conceal or at least mask the blood of the wounded and the dead. Ship to ship engagements were bloody actions . . ." She continued to listen and tried to grasp the significance of what the guide said. But she sensed the man's presence behind and that made it difficult to concentrate on facts given them.
When the guide was finished, he again warned to be careful going down the gangways and proceeded to lead them down to the gun deck.
"I'll go first," the man said to her, "in case your short legs are too short for the job."
She laughed and stepped aside. "I feel ever so much safer now," she said.
He moved down the steps as if he'd been doing it all his life. But he was never more than three steps in front of her ready for an emergency should one occur.
They followed the group as it formed something like a semi-circle around a very large gun, which the guide explained was the ship's main armament.
Now he stood beside her. The top of her head was at least two inches below his shoulder.
To confirm her first impression of him, she whispered, "Are you an American?"
"A Connecticut Yankee at that," he answered, wondering if she'd catch the reference?
She did catch it and smiling, she answered, " But this is far from King Arthur's Court."
And they laughed softly, satisfied with each other.
"Is that where you really live?" she asked. "Connecticut, I mean?"
"Yes. And where do you live?"
"Stokes-on-Trent," she answered.
He nodded. He couldn't have known if she were married because she wore gloves. When she took them off, he immediately saw a narrow gold wedding ring and an engagement ring with a small diamond in basket setting. He never wore a wedding ring. But he did wear an identification bracelet that looked as if it were made of silver.
They moved with the group, but always a slight distance behind it, and when it paused to listen to the guide's explanation of what they were looking at, they stood at its periphery.
She could smell his cologne, and though it seemed to be familiar she couldn't identify its scent. It wasn't cheap cologne, she was sure of that. By the time they moved down to the second deck, he took hold of her right arm and guided her down the last three steps of the companionway. She felt the firmness of his grasp and trusted it. His hand was large and his fingers long. Yet, there was nothing feminine about them or in any way about him. At the bottom of the companionway, he didn't let go of her. His hand went from her arm to her hand, and she looked questioningly at him.
"Mind?" he asked.
"I'm not sure," she answered. "Maybe it wouldn't feel so awkward if I knew your name." But it didn't feel awkward at all, and that was what was awkward about it.
"Henry . . . Hank," he said, aware that he hadn't given her his surname. "Now does that make it less awkward?"
She smiled.
"Now your name, please?" he asked, his head cocked to one side. "After all, I don't hold hands with every woman I meet, and when I do it's something special."
She felt the heat in her cheeks. "My God, you are smooth."
"If I am, it's not the result of long practice but rather from age and several minutes of rehearsal."
"Rehearsal?" she whooped, laughing loudly and drawing attention to them. In an instant she'd embarrassed herself and him, and there was nothing she could do but stand there and feel the heat flush through her body.
Henry waited a few moments before he whispered, imitating her accent, "It's your name I'm wanting."
"Oh for God's sake, it's Katharine with a K."
"Or Kate or Kathy or Katy to friends?" he asked.
"Kate," she answered.
He smiled and said, "I'll explain the rehearsal later."
"I should hope so," she said. "It certainly caused me more than a bit of embarrassment.
With a quick movement of his hand, he waved away what she told him and said, "By now they probably think the worst."
She didn't answer him. She didn't have to. From the way he looked at her, she knew he wanted her. But her feelings weren't so overt as his, nor could she allow them to be. She was a married woman with two teenaged boys and a considerate husband. Still, the way he looked at her and made her heart race--a heat, different from the one she'd experienced a short while before, filled her body. It was almost as if a memory of passion had suddenly returned with even more intensity than the first time that she'd felt it, so many years before.
"Now we will go into the Admiral's quarters," the guide announced. "Everything is either the original item or an exact duplicate of the original item. The cabin is exactly the way it was before Lord Nelson died. Please follow me and refrain from touching anything in the Admiral's quarters."
The sound of his voice brought Hank and Kate back to the reality of where they were and holding hands they moved with the group.
Hank would have suggested to her that they leave and find a place where they could be alone, where they could become lovers. But he realized that such a suggestion would be too rash. He already sensed the tumult in her. It was no less in him. He was acting out of character. He was not in any way a womanizer. But during his long absences from Louise, there were opportunities and he took them, though not often. Few women attracted him and he knew the reverse was true. For some mysterious reason, women were afraid of him. He'd never broached the subject of extramarital affairs with Louise. He expected that if she had any they would have been discreet and in no way impinge on their marriage, which fitted him like an old glove.
They were inside Nelson's quarters. The elaborate carvings on the ship's stern belied the austerity of the Admiral's cabin. Many things had a dual function. That was true in every part of the ship that they had visited. Space was always at a premium.
The guide explained, "Lord Nelson's sleeping pallet could be turned into his coffin just by turning up its sides. But the Admiral had a terrible fear of being buried at sea, and he made Captain Harvey promise that if he should be killed his body would be pickled and sent back to England for a proper burial. It was placed in a barrel of brandy for its journey back to England."
Hank whispered, "It's just the opposite with me. When my time comes, I will be cremated and my ashes--"
Please, I'd prefer that we didn't talk about it."
He nodded.
Then, she said, "My dad died in an accidental fire aboard a ship . . . If it weren't for the photos of him that my mom still has, I would not have any memory of what he looked like."
He wanted to say he was sorry. But sorry for what? That her father had died in a fire? That he told her that he wanted to be cremated? Besides sorry was such a feeble word. Instead, he gently squeezed her hand to let her know that he could at the very least from an emotional distance sympathize with her feelings. Her pain. The distance resulted from the fact that his parents lived long lives. When they did die, he himself was closing on sixty years.
As they left Nelson's cabin, the tour guide said, "It was Lady Hamilton who made those curtains for the Admiral's windows. They were lovers, you know. Now, we will proceed to the lower decks."
As Hank and Kate followed the group into the depths of the ship, the tour guide explained that each sailor was allowed a bit over six centimeters for his hammock. If it occupied more, he was flogged. He also said that there were twenty-two American seamen aboard, who had been taken off their ships and impressed into the British Navy.
Finally they arrived at what their guide called the Orlap deck and gathered in a semicircle in front of a diorama that depicted Lord Nelson's death.
Hank put his arm around her waist.
She said nothing. She didn't even glance at him as she had when he had taken told of her hand. It wasn't that it was the most natural thing in the world. Indeed, it wasn't natural at all. But she'd been expecting it. Perhaps wanting the closeness they now shared? That was what made it so extraordinary, as if she had somehow divided and become two different people. One held by him, and the other, close by, watching.
The guide said, "In excruciating pain, the Admiral lasted three days. After he died, his body was preserved in the cask of brandy."
Someone asked, "What happened to the brandy after his body was removed?"
The guide laughed. "There's always that question, and I haven't got an answer for it. I doubt if there is one. Now, if all of you will follow me, we will return to the foredeck, where the tour ends."
As they went up the companionways, Hank followed behind her, just in case she might have taken a misstep or was unable to negotiate the steps because they were very steep. They didn't speak, except when they reached the second gun deck she asked if he'd been a sailor?
The question made him laugh.
"You went down the steps and now you're going up the same steps as if you were used to doing it."
"Well, that's almost true," he said. "But I'll tell you the whole truth when we're topside."
She echoed, "Topside." And began to climb the companionway leading directly to the foredeck.
# # #
Once they reached the deck, the fresh, sharp bite of the sea air was in sharp contrast to the dead, almost fetid air below deck.
Leading them to the gangplank, the guide said, "This ends the tour of Her Majesty's Ship, Victory. I bid all of you a good day, and thank you for coming."
Hank went up to him, shook his hand, and said, "Thank you Mister Berryman. You gave a lively and interesting presentation." And he handed him a ten-pound note.
The guide saluted him and winked at Kate.
"He's on to us," she said as they walked down the gangplank.
"There's nothing for him to be on to . . . yet," he answered, putting his arm around her waist and suggesting that they have lunch and then visit the gift shop.
"Ah yes," she said. "I could do with a cup of hot tea and a sandwich."
He wanted to suggest that they leave the Dockyard and go to a combination inn and pub that he'd seen when he left the station. But again he thought that would cause her to shy away from the suggestion and from him.
"You know, I've never done this kind of thing," she said, "I mean since I've been married."
Her face was turned up to his and filled with a serious expression, and he saw that her eyes were light blue.
"What about you?"
He saw no purpose in lying to her and said, "A few times before I was married and a few times after."
She frowned. "So, I'm included in the list of a few times after?"
Hank stopped and said, "Yes, you're one of the few." He waited for her to say something or walk away. But when she did neither, he took hold of her hand again and continued walking.
For several moments, neither of them spoke. But then she asked, "Are you going to tell me how, or rather why, you were able to manage those steps so well?"
"I own a large boat, and my work makes it necessary for me to be aboard a ship a good deal of the time."
"What do you do?"
"I'm an undersea geologist. I look for oil deposits," he said without elaborating. She seemed to be thinking about what he told her, and he quietly said, "I own a company that does that sort of work."
She looked quickly up at him, but didn't say anything. Even if he hadn't told her that he owned a company, she'd have guessed that he owned something. That, as much as any man could be, he was his own master. Something Adrian would never be and could never imagine being. She wasn't comparing them and finding one lacking, rather she was totally aware of the differences between them. Adrian was at the peak of his powers; the strange man with his arm around her waist was old and gray, but was still vital and had an aura of power and even authority about him.
"Deep in thought, are you?" Hank teased.
"Sometimes it happens . . . you know, at odd moments."
"Yes, I know," he said, steering her toward the Yard's commissary.
# # #
They sat at a small table in the cafeteria, which had some pretensions toward a nautical air with reproductions and photographs of past and present famous British ships on the walls, along with various kinds of knots used decoratively.
Before they sat, Kate removed her cap, and Hank saw that her long blond hair was done up in a bun on the back of her head.
Hank had coffee and a roast beef sandwich, while she had tea and a green salad.
She told him she had two sons: Donald, the eldest, was fifteen and Ross was twelve. "And do you have children?" she asked.
"One," he said. "A son, but we've been estranged for several years." He was surprised that he mentioned it. He seldom spoke about Paul to anyone, let alone a stranger.
"Just that, estranged?" she asked.
"He thinks that what I have is his," Hank answered, his fingers spread along the table's edge as if it were a keyboard.
She reached across the table and touched the side of his face. "I'm sorry," she said. "I can see the pain in your face, in your eyes."
He took her hand and kissed its palm.
"Oh!" she said softly, as her body filled with a sudden explosion of heat.
Releasing her hand, he said, "Tell me about your boys."
"They do all the good and naughty things boys their age do," she said. "Donald seems to have a talent for mathematics, but he writes well too. And Ross is a bright light. Funny and charming."
"They sound wonderful," Hank said, realizing that she was looking at his bracelet.
"A gift to myself for my sixtieth birthday," he said, taking it off and handing it to her.
"My God it's heavy. It's silver, isn't it?"
"No."
"White gold?"
He laughed. "No."
"Platinum?"
"You're close; it's Palladium."
She hefted it and saw that something was engraved on its underside. Her eyes went to his, then back to the bracelet. "First Lieutenant Henry Rollins, Oh twenty-one, nine two six seven twenty-three, Company C, Eighth Marines, First Division, Korea, nineteen hundred and fifty to nineteen hundred and fifty one." She looked at him.
He nodded. "I was there then."
"I wasn't even born yet," she said, handing the bracelet back to him. "It was hard, wasn't it?"
"Yes," It was another topic he seldom spoke to anyone about.
Then she smiled and asked, "Is there anything else that you want me to know about you?"
"A great deal, but not all at once. But what about you? I know you have a husband named Adrian and two sons whom you adore. But that's not all of you."
"All of me?" she questioned, her eyes locking with his. "I doubt if I know all of me . . . what woman does or what man knows all of himself?"
Hank agreed, but he still pressed her for more information.
"Well, I went to a two-year college and graduated with a degree in graphic design. But then I met Adrian--"
"You never worked in the field?"
She shook her head. "I do some sketching and painting now and then, but only for my pleasure. Nothing serious. But tell me how you became a geologist? And underwater geologist at that?"
He explained, "Before I went into the Marines I'd graduated from college with a degree in Mechanical Engineering. But when I was in Korea, I became interested in the way the mountains had been formed. After I came home, I went back and to college and got a degree in geology, then a masters in the subject and finally a doctoral degree in the subject of underwater geological formations."
"That's--that's--" Impressed, she couldn't think of what to say.
"That's what I did," he laughed and told her, "I think we should let someone else use the table. It's getting crowded in here."
"By all means," she answered.
"We can browse through the gift shop before I have to leave," he said, helping her on with her coat. He was very close to her and wondered if she had any idea of how intensely aware of her he was.
# # #
The gift shop was a pleasant surprise for Hank and for her as well, he guessed. Its walls were paneled and oak stained.
"Nothing is shoved in your face," she commented.
He agreed.
Together they paused at the stacks of T-shirts, sweaters, jackets, and caps, all of which had either the various ships in the Dockyard stitched into or painted on them. They moved on to where there were several cases of jewelry. Most of it was pewter or silver, though some pieces were made of gold. There were earrings, pendants, and chains and pins. A very few had garnets and amethysts around which the metal had been worked. All of them had a nautical theme.
Kate studied them long enough to attract the attention of a clerk, who came over and asked, "Is there anything in particular you'd like to see?"
"Just looking," Kate answered with a smile and an undisguised longing in her voice. "You know, just looking."
The clerk, a woman closer to Hank's age than Kate's, said, "My favorite is the anchor on the chain with matching earrings."
"Yes, it is a lovely combination."
"Especially in gold," the clerk said.
Kate agreed and added, "But as I said, I'm just looking." She was about to turn away, when Hank said, "Get whatever you want. I will pay for it."
"No. That won't do," she said quietly and walked away from the case.
"I can buy--"
"I know you can and I thank you for the offer. But that's not why I'm here with you."
"I know that. But--"
"Please Hank, don't insist."
He nodded.
They went to where there were kits of various ships and airplanes displayed.
"When I was a boy," he told her, "I built airplanes made of balsa wood and doped tissue paper with stretched rubber bands for motors."
"Did they fly?"
"Sometimes. But they were so fragile that, well, they didn't last long. But then almost every boy wanted to fly, wanted to be a test pilot. There was even a film Test Pilot that starred Clark Cable and Myrna Loy. But it doesn't matter. They're all gone now."
"And you never became a pilot?"
"I did. I owned a plane for awhile, but I much prefer the boat."
"I should have known that if you wanted to do something, you'd have done it."
He gently squeezed her hand.
"Oh how my boys would love to put that together," she said pointing to a large model of the HMS Victory.
"With all that intricate rigging, do you think they could do it?" Hank asked.
"Their dad would help them. He's very good at that sort of thing."
"Let me buy it for you?" Hank asked. "It's not like jewelry. It's--"
"You don't understand. It's not that I didn't want something you'd have bought for me or the model for my sons. But I--Adrian and I--don't have the money to spend on those things. How could I explain them to Adrian?"
"I'm sorry, I didn't understand," Hank said. Like opposing forces, the vectors of her getting something for herself or her sons and the explanation that she knew must follow hadn't a resultant vector, a solution that she could live with, so she chose to avoid the conflict.
"But if it will make you happy, you can buy a cheap snap together model for my boys," she said.
"It would make me very happy," Hank answered.
# # #
By the time they left the gift shop, the sky had become leaden. Overhead the seagulls wheeled and cried to each other.
"I think we're in for some rain," Hank said.
"I hope not. I don't like to drive in the rain or snow."
He glanced at his watch. It was almost two-thirty, the time for her tour of the Mary-Rose to begin. At three his train left. If he missed it, he'd have to hire a cab or rent a car and drive back to London. "We'll have to say good by soon," he said.
"Yes," she said softly. "I've had a wonderful day."
"So have I," he answered, suddenly feeling, for all his age and worldliness, very boyish and unsure of himself. "Look," he said, "I know it's crazy and not fair to ask, but I want to see you again." He stopped and turned her to him so that whatever answer she'd give, they'd be facing each other.
She uttered a ragged sigh. She knew he was going to say something about wanting to see her again because she wanted to see him again. "Yes," she said. "I know I shouldn't, but--"
He put his gloved finger across her lips. "Maybe tomorrow we'll talk about it."
"Tomorrow?"
"I'll meet you at the British Museum, at the main gate. Can you be there?"
"Yes. I think so."
He put his lips gently on hers while her arms reached up and went around his neck.
"Tomorrow," he said, separating from her.
"I better go now," she said.
They touched hands, and she walked away.
He watched her for a few moments. She turned and made a small gesture with her gloved hand. He did the same. Before he turned and walked to the gate, he looked back at the ship. It was, indeed, beautiful.
He'd remember it as he had first seen it, splashed in sunlight.
# # #
Hank would almost always arrive at the specific time set for an appointment. He resented the sloppiness of anyone who kept him waiting, and if the individual arrived early for an appointment with him it was a clear sign of the person's lack of self-assurance, especially if the meeting concerned business matters.
But he arrived a whole half-hour early at the entrance to the British Museum, feeling as anxious as any young man on his first date. The streets were still glossy from the overnight rain, but the sun was out and the wind had died down. The chestnut vendors were in place, already doing a brisk business. Even the pigeons looked happy, though, when he thought about it, he wouldn't know how an unhappy pigeon looked.
He'd also awaked earlier than was necessary. He'd showered, dressed, and had orange juice, coffee, and a scone by eight o'clock. That had given him time to walk and enjoy the early morning sights and sounds of the city. And more importantly, it had given him time to plan the day. Something he'd already done many times since leaving Kate. First there would be brunch; then back to the hotel suite. Lunch. Perhaps a museum or, if she agreed, back to the hotel suite? Finally a drink in a quiet pub before she'd have to leave. An exquisite day for the two of them. Something each would treasure in their particular way . . .
For him, though, it would probably be his last of such an encounter. The usual male dysfunctional problem that comes with age had become his little shadow and it followed him everywhere, especially into the bedroom. No amount of medication, herbal or chemical miracle, would undo what nature was already in the process of doing.
# # #
The previous evening at dinner with George the subject of their ages and what each expected to do with the years left had come up.
"I'm going to retire shortly," George said, " and as Candide says, 'all we can do is tend our own garden.' I've had a full life. I couldn't have asked for more of anything. As far as the sex thing goes, I had my fill. It will go when it goes and that will be the lot of it."
"I'm less ready to throw in the towel," Hank admitted. " Beautiful women, or at least one who I consider beautiful, can still capture my imagination.
George laughed, "That's about all she'll capture. You old goat."
"I'll drink to that," George said raising his glass of wine.
They clicked classes and drank . . .
# # #
A parade of buses debouched their passengers, all of whom headed for the museum. There seemed to be battalions of students from grade school to high school. Some wore uniforms, while others were in street clothes.
Hank glanced at his watch. The time of Kate's arrival was approaching. He searched for her face among the faces of the people who passed him. He was about to look at his watch again, when he saw her. But she was with a man. For the first time in many years, Hank couldn't think. His mind went blank. Nothing. He couldn't move . . .
As soon as she saw him, she steered Adrian toward him. She couldn't just pass him by. That would inflict more pain than she could bear and more pain than he deserved, not that he deserved any pain at all. On the contrary, she wanted to go to him, put her arms around him and explain that she too felt--what? Frustration. Absolute frustration. She would have been his for a day and he would have been hers. She had dreamt about it. Savored it. And now all she could was squinch back her tears. She had to carry this off. Maybe he'd understand that the unpredictable happens and when it does, often as not, there's no way out. Adrian took the day off. Said he was tired of the classroom and wanted to go up to London to the British Museum. That was that. Unless she play-acted and pretended to be sick, they'd go.
She was just a few steps away from Hank, when she said, "My God, I don't believe it! This is the man I told you about coming up here who was so kind to me yesterday."
Hank straightened up. Adrian was a half a head shorter than he and chunky.
Kate introduced them and they shook hands.
"I'm ever so grateful to you for looking after Kate," Adrian said.
"It was my pleasure," Hank answered, but his eyes were on her and hers were cast down.
"Are you waiting for someone?" Adrian asked.
"I was," Hank said. "But I don't think he'll be coming."
"You're welcome to join us," Adrian offered.
"No thank you," Hank said.
"It's been a pleasure to meet you," Adrian said.
"The pleasure was all mine," Hank answered, unable to keep the edge out of his voice.
But she caught it and said, "Thank you again, Mister Rollins, for your kindness. I don't think I'll ever forget it."
Hank nodded.
She and Adrian continued toward the museum's entrance, while Hank looked after them.
Just as they reached the top of the steps, Kate separated from her husband, looked back at Hank, and shrugged helplessly.
He half raised his hand and waved. He hoped she would remember him. He would always remember her and in those odd moments when the past and present flow together, he'd imagine how it might have been if they'd been lovers for a day . . . beautiful, he'd tell himself. Beautiful . . .
Please send us your comments, including the name of the work you are commenting on.
| Welcome |
Contents |
Submissions |
Contact |
Privacy |
About |
Copyright © 1999-2003 by Amarillo Bay. All rights reserved.
Individual works are copyrighted by their authors.
|