She walked all the way to the east end of the park, to Marble Arch, and decided to go on into the park and spend an hour or so strolling, people-watching, observing this or that interesting bit of the passing scene. She’d bought a Times earlier, and maybe, if it didn’t rain, she might sit on a bench and read her paper. Or watch children playing in the park. She smiled, with some guilt, because there was Sam, her imagined companion, right along with her, enjoying the day, enjoying her comments, enjoying her pleasure.
But she’d gone barely a hundred feet when a crowd at Speakers’ Corner caught her attention. It was an animated bunch, almost all men, some cheering and some yelling and jeering at the speaker whose harangue she couldn’t at all make out. She was amused by all their passion, cheerers and jeerers alike, and she paused to watch. This was more fun than sitting on a bench and watching children play. The crowd was animated, yes, and it was all very interesting even if she couldn’t figure out what it was about. But then, after maybe five minutes or so, the crowd’s energy around her was increasing. The tone changed from energy to agitation to real anger, and as she tried to make out what was going on, what issues were so enraging the people around her, she realized that more and more people were arriving. The crowd was getting bigger and noisier and angrier. In fact, the crowd’s fury was escalating and it was beginning to feel—well—menacing? And she finally realized that she might actually be in danger. At first, she told herself to calm down, that she was in a perfectly lovely park in London and nothing awful was going to happen.
But then a genuine fight broke out only a few feet away from her, and fists were flying. Someone stepped hard on her foot, an elbow jabbed her sharply in the back, and she was bring pushed about by the press of the crowd. She knew she had to get away. But how to get out of this mass of bodies, these waving arms and clenched fists and furious faces?
Then suddenly a hand gripped her arm. At first, she was about to fight it off, to resist its pull on her, but a firm voice close to her ear said, “Let’s get you out of here!” and a strong arm was clearing a path for her among the frenzied bodies. She was holding up her newspaper to shield her face, afraid of the crowd’s attack, so it wasn’t until they were clear of the roiling mass of bodies and out onto a clear space of grass, that she saw the face of the man who’d rescued her, who’d just turned to her and said, “Are you all right?”
She thought, for a moment, that someone in the crazy riot she’d just come out of must have hit her on the head and knocked her brains askew. Her eyes, as they say, were deceiving her. She couldn’t make sense of what she was seeing.
“Sam?”
What could she do but stare at him?
“You’re all right?” he asked again.
She had no answer. Had she been knocked silly? Was she in London? Or in New York? Was this Sam? Or someone who looked a lot like him?
She shook her head—as though to clear it.
“Oh, jeez,” he said. “I must have surprised you, just showing up like that.”
Now she caught her breath. A little. That was certainly Sam’s voice.
“Surprised me?” she said. “Well, yes. You surprised me. You sure did. A little bit more than surprised. I thought I’d lost my mind.” She blinked a couple of times, as though that would help her think. “I can’t breathe.”
“Hey, let’s find you a place to sit down.” He looked around. “Over there,” he said, pointing. He took her arm again, gently this time. The riot seemed to have settled down a bit, the police had arrived and were arresting people, and no one paid any attention as he led her to a nearby bench. “I guess I should explain,” he said.
“Yes, I guess you should.”
They sat down together on the bench.
“They told me at the hotel that you had just left, so I came out and saw you walking down Bayswater Road. I thought it would be fun to surprise you, so I just followed you till you came into the park. When you stopped to watch the speech, I was going to wait till you moved on. I didn’t want to surprise you right in the middle of all those people. And then the crowd got nasty and I saw you were in a bad spot.” He looked at her seriously. “I was really scared for you, Marge.”
She didn’t even know where to start. “But what are you doing in London? Why aren’t you in New York? What about the litigation? With Jerry? Has it settled? And how did you know where to find me? I didn’t tell anyone where I was going. No one knew my plans.”
“That’s at least six, seven questions. I’m not in New York because, obviously, I need to be here. No, the litigation is not done and I’ll be back in court on Monday morning. And as for finding you—well,” he laughed briefly, “let’s just say I have my ways.”
She blinked a few more times. Shook her head. “I don’t get it. What do you mean, you have your ways?”
He laughed. “I spent seven years in military intelligence. You didn’t know that, did you?”
“Sam, I don’t know a thing about you. Not since way back, you know, when we were in school.” She sort of laughed. “If you can remember back that far.”
“Oh, I remember, Marge. I remember everything.”
She felt a pang. Embarrassment, definitely. It took some courage to keep from looking away from him. She kept her eyes on his face.
“That was then, Sam.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment.
“I hope that’s true, Marge.” He looked so serious, his usual, casual lightheartedness subdued. They both shut up for a moment, remembering. Then Sam said, “Listen, are you feeling okay, now? Feeling steadier?” He looked over to where the crowd was thinning out. People were being loaded into police vans; reporters were shoving microphones into people’s faces. “Let’s get out of here,” Sam said. “I haven’t had breakfast yet. In fact, nothing since lunch yesterday. We worked late last night and I just had time to grab a candy bar at JFK before my flight. And then I slept through breakfast on the plane. You feel ready to go?”
“I’m okay,” she said. She stood up—and wobbled a little.
“Here,” he said. “Take my arm.”
And she did, and she could feel the nice strength of him through the fabric of his shirt.
Oh, Lord, she thought. He feels so good.
Chapter Twelve
Coming out of the park, they were faced with a McDonald’s across the street and a little further along, at the corner, a Pret a Manger.
“Oh, no,” Sam said. “I didn’t come all this way to eat at a fast food chain. Let’s head back toward the hotel. I need to get a room and we can find some place to eat along the way.” They started walking back along Bayswater Road, with the park to their left and on the right the long row of sedate homes and shops, all white and bright in the morning sunlight. Although there was so much to talk about, so many questions Marge wanted to ask, she was in a daze of confusion and delight that took her breath away, and silenced by a flood of emotions that belonged to another time.
She was glad she had his arm to hang onto. But the mystery of her attraction to Sam, so instantaneous and unexpected, silenced her, as well as the puzzle of Sam’s gallant arrival, so impossible—so magical—so, for the time being, her questions remained unasked: Why was he in London? Why was he at her hotel? Why was he asking for her? How could he know where she was? She felt as though a door had opened and she’d stepped through into a fantasy place where impossible things happened. With her hand on his arm and his body so close against hers, she discovered that she’d have known this was Sam next to her even if she’d been blindfolded, even after all these years, as though the rhythm of his walk and the warmth if his body were an implanted part of her sense memory. How could that be? After twenty years? Impossible. Impossible, too, because of course his body was no longer the same. What had been the lanky, rather rangy awkwardness of his boyish, adolescent years had matured into a fit and fully adult male. She was intrigued by the
transformation.
Sam Packard has grown into a pretty hunky guy!
She sneaked a sly glance at him, and realized it was true. She still wouldn’t have called him hot-looking, not in a movie-star sort of way—but his hair was no longer wild, his expression was mature and more thoughtful, and though he wasn’t handsome, he was definitely good-looking. And he hadn’t lost that wonderful smile, a smile that said the world he looked out at looked good to him and that he was glad to be in it.
And so they walked for perhaps ten minutes, slowly, pleasantly, thoughtfully—and silently. Until Sam pointed to the left, where up ahead of them there was an entrance into the park.
“There’s a cafe over there, in Kensington Gardens,” he said. “I can get some breakfast.” And as he led her across the street and through Marlborough Gate, he put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her to him. It was a gesture as friendly and familiar as though it hadn’t been twenty years since they’d last been dating.
I’m too old to feel so young, she thought. But oh, this is so sweet. So damned sweet!
She leaned her head lightly against his shoulder, and she couldn’t help closing her eyes in pleasure. He responded with a light squeeze of his arm around her and a light touch of his face against the top of her head.
Goofy! she thought. I’m getting goofy again. That’s what’s happening. What am I going to do?
At the cafe, there were empty tables outside in the sunlight, and he led her to one, pulled out a chair, and held it for her as she sat down.
“What would you like? They have sandwiches and salads and things. Tea? Coffee?”
“I’ve had breakfast. Just coffee.”
“Do you still take it straight—black, no sugar?”
“Still the same,” she said.
“I remember,” he said. “You were just starting to drink coffee, and you thought it was very grown-up to take it black and straight. I thought it was cute.” He laughed briefly. “I guess I was trying to be grown up, too. Feeling very superior.”
“We were both doing our best,” she said. “And now, look at us. We really are all grown up. Aren’t we?”
“Right. All grown up.” There was that nice smile again. “So, just coffee? No muffin? No scone? You’re in London now. You’re supposed to eat scones. Or a crumpet, or something.”
Hadn’t Dr. Diaz told her to gain back some of the weight she’d lost?
“Okay, a scone,” she said.
“I’ll get it,” he said. He went to the counter, ordered eggs, sausage, hash browns for himself and coffee, black, for both of them. He brought a scone back to the table for Marge. Then they were ready to talk.
Marge started. “How long are you going to be here in London?”
“I have to leave tomorrow.”
“Just the one day? That’s a quick trip.”
“Something I needed to take care of this weekend.”
“Is it about the litigation? I think Jerry said one of the parties is a British investment house.”
He didn’t answer right away. He was choosing his words carefully.
“Sort of,” he said finally. “I guess you could say it’s connected with the litigation. Not about the Brits and their interest. No. It’s something else.” He put on a very serious face, and Marge had the feeling he was kidding. “You just never know where some big surprise will pop up.”
“Sounds mysterious.”
“Can’t talk about it.” Now he really smiled. “Confidentiality, you know.”
“Well, okay. If you can’t talk about it—”
“Exactly. So I’ll change the subject.” He tilted his head and looked her over, making a show of checking out what she was wearing. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in jeans. That’s a switch. Marge Webster, doyenne of the fashion industry, in jeans and a plain white tee shirt. Like an ordinary person.” He leaned over to look under the table at her feet. “And tennis shoes,” he added.
“Doyenne? That sounds so old.”
“I don’t know what else to call you. Anyway, what’s up with the jeans?”
“I’m wearing a disguise.”
He laughed. “Only you could make a disguise out of jeans and a tee shirt. But I get it. Now that you’ve become a celebrity—like if the tabloids knew—?”
She laughed at that. “I’m a very minor celebrity, Sam. But there are people who might recognize me if I walked around in my usual wardrobe, particularly around Mayfair. In jeans and tee shirt, I blend in very nicely. You’re not going to give me away, are you?”
The waitress arrived with Sam’s breakfast and he attacked his eggs. “Give you away?” he said lightly. “I would never give you away, Marge.” Between mouthfuls, he added, “But it’s a good thing I found you when I did.”
“I know, Sam.”
“I saw how that crowd had you trapped. It was getting pretty hairy.”
“I was really scared.”
“Of course you were. It was a really scary scene.” He paused, his fork mid-way to his mouth, just long enough to check her out. “In fact, you’re still a little pale.” He smiled at her. “Eat your scone.”
She took a bite. And put the scone back on her plate. “I’m not complaining about your being here.”
“Good.” He scarfed down some more eggs. “I’d hate to think I had to go rushing in like Sir Lancelot, at risk of life and limb, and have you be mad at me.”
Oh, I’m not mad, Sam.
And then, Marge did a very uncharacteristic thing. Without thinking, without even noticing that she was doing it, she picked a hash brown off his plate and ate it.
But Sam noticed, and he smiled. He remembered that casually intimate act as one of her most endearing traits. He didn’t know that she did it completely unconsciously, and that she had never done it with anyone else.
But when she licked the salt and grease off her fingers, Sam had to close his eyes for a moment, needing to control the response the innocent and unthinking gesture aroused in him. Momentarily more serious, he repeated, “Oh, Marge, a man would be a fool to give you away.” Then, as though veering off in a completely different direction, he said, “So, Marge. Tell me about Jerry. How long have you and my worthy opponent been an item?”
“We’ve been together for about six years.”
“Are you living together?”
“No.” She knew she was feeling evasive. As though she needed to explain the relationship she had with Jerry. But why should she need to explain? And why be evasive? “We both have busy lives. We live independently. We’re sort of—parallel. I guess that’s a good word for it.” It was the best she could come up with.
“Are you going to marry him?”
“Oh, come on, Sam. You can’t just come waltzing onto the scene after all these years and start asking me personal questions.”
“Fair enough. I’ll back off.”
“And what about you?” She gestured toward his left hand. “I don’t see a ring. Any women in your life?”
She took another hash brown off his plate.
“There was. She was tall and dark, like you,” he said. He didn’t add: but she wasn’t you. “We lived together for a few years, but she didn’t like the military life and she didn’t like Washington, DC. And maybe she didn’t like me that much, either. Anyway, it didn’t last.”
“And nobody since then?”
“Nobody serious.” She reached for another bit of his food and he laughed. “Listen,” he said, “you must be hungrier than you think.” He moved his plate over to her side of the table. “I’ve had enough and you can finish up what’s left there. And then let’s get out of here. I need to get back to the hotel and book a room.”
She looked at the morsel of food she was holding. She actually hadn’t realized it was there, hadn’t realized she’d been picking food off Sam’s plate.<
br />
“Oh, my God! I’m so sorry.” She didn’t know whether to eat it or return it to his plate.
“No. Go ahead. Eat it. Eat it all. I’ve had enough.” He was laughing.
“That’s so rude of me.” She picked up her fork. “I didn’t even realize—”
“I know. I think it’s sweet. You don’t remember, do you? You used to pick at my food all the time. Once, you picked the pickle out of my hamburger.”
“I didn’t!” And then it came back to her. “Oh, Sam. I did. I remember now. It was at a ball game. You set your burger down on the bleacher between us, and I didn’t even think, and I just took it. And you teased me about it.”
“Our team was winning and I was up on my feet, cheering them on, and when I looked around, there you were, eating the pickle out of my hamburger and not even noticing you were doing it.”
“I was concentrating on the game.”
“I know. It liked it, that you used to pick at my food.”
“I don’t know why I did.”
“Doesn’t matter. Anyway, eat up what’s there now while I get the check. And we can go.”
Chapter Thirteen
At the hotel, Marge waited discreetly in the lobby, curled up comfortably in one of the big tufted brown leather sofas. A copy of UK Lady Fair was on a side table and she leafed through it while she waited for Sam to book a room and leave a wake-up call for seven thirty.
He booked the room, but as it turned out, he never used it.
* * * *
He joined her at the sofa. “I’m set now.” He sat down next to her. “And I’m hoping you didn’t have any plans for the day.”
“No plans. Usually, when I come to London, it’s work, work, work. So I never get to just enjoy the city. This whole week, it’s been really great. I’ve been just resting, walking around, people-watching. But you’re here on legal business, aren’t you? Don’t you have to be somewhere? Or meet someone?”
“Not yet. I have some time. But as long as you’re not busy, why don’t we spend a little time together, maybe go people-watching together?”
Who Would You Choose? Page 9