“Mmm.”
“Ten minutes!”
She disappeared under the covers and he went back into the bathroom, rinsed, and came back out. He had a newspaper with him, and he sat down in the one chair and opened the paper.
“Ten minutes,” he repeated.
No answer, and he smiled toward the bed and then began to read.
Ten minutes later, he looked at his watch, folded up the paper, and went over to the bed. Her hair was a mass of dark curls on the pillow, and he lifted them so that he could lean down and put a kiss on her cheek.
“Time to wake up, sleepyhead.”
“Mmm.”
He pulled the covers back a bit, exposing her shoulder. He shook her lightly. “Come on,” he said. “Gotta get going. Get up. Get dressed. Come on,” he repeated. “I’ll buy you breakfast.”
She opened an eye. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
Tabloid articles and profile pieces about Marge Webster described how she had her hair and makeup done professionally every morning, and how her wardrobe was put together very carefully for each day’s scheduled activities. Well more than an hour could be spent just getting her ready to leave for the office.
So Sam was impressed to see that she also knew how to be ready—bed to front door—in ten minutes. Jeans, tee shirt, a denim jacket and Top-Siders. Hair pulled up into a ponytail. And her handbag slung over her shoulder.
“Where are we going?”
“Into the park. Into Kensington Gardens. Something there I want to show you.”
“Can we get breakfast first? Coffee, at least?”
“Sure. What I want to show you—it isn’t going anywhere.”
* * * *
The colors were changing in Kensington Gardens; the morning was autumn-cool and Marge was glad she’d brought a jacket. But the tables were still outside at the cafe near the Italian Gardens and as they took their seats, she liked that the same table they’d sat at the last time was free; she liked to think of it as “our place.” Sam went to the counter to order their “usual” breakfast of sausage, eggs, and hash browns, came back to the table and then sat back in his chair and said, “Listen, Marge. There’s something I have to talk to you about.”
“You look serious. Is it serious?”
“I’m not sure. You’ll let me know.”
“Okay.”
“After I left you last night, I was thinking.”
“Yes?”
“Well, you were saying you’re leaving London tomorrow. And you wouldn’t tell me where you were going. And I said I’d find you, and I was kind of teasing about it.”
“What are you getting at, Sam?”
“Well, I guess I thought it was kind of a game. Like you could pretend to hide and I could pretend to hunt for you. And it was fun. We were sort of teasing each other.”
“Yes?”
“But when I was back in my room, thinking about it, I realized this trip away from New York has really been a kind of retreat—you really do need to get away from everyone and everything. And I’ve been so eager to see you, it never occurred to me that maybe I’m getting in the way of your recovery.”
“Hardly that, Sam.”
“I’m glad to hear it. But twice now, I’ve just shown up, unannounced, unplanned for, never asked if it was okay with you.”
“It’s been okay. It definitely has been okay. Surely you could tell. I practically ripped your clothes off you last night.”
He laughed. “Yeah. Well that was encouraging, it’s true. But here’s the thing. Last night, our things got kind of scattered around on the floor, and while you were out of the room, when I was picking up our stuff, your bag was open and I saw your plane tickets.”
She opened her mouth, but no words came out. She couldn’t decide if it was funny, or outrageous, or just what she wanted, and before she could choose a response, he went on.
“And your room reservation.”
She was even more—what?—confused?
“Yeah, I know,” he said. He understood. “Not nice. But I thought it was kind of cute. Here you were saying you wouldn’t tell where you were going, and I was saying I’d find you. And I was thinking I knew how to find you and I would just arrive and surprise you in Vienna. Like we were playing a game.
“But then it occurred to me, ‘Sam, you’re practically stalking her. That’s bad. Maybe Marge really does want to be left alone. Maybe she really does need to be left alone. Maybe, if you get together in Vienna, it should be only if that’s what Marge wants.’
“So I want to suggest this, Marge. I expect we’ll be in court this week at least and maybe the next couple of weeks. If you decide you want me to come over, just text me and the first day we’re free, I’ll be on a plane that night, meet you anywhere. But if I don’t hear from you, then I’ll know to just look forward to when you’re home, all rested up and recuperated, and we’ll see what’s what at that time. How does that sound?”
By the time he’d finished his speech, she’d closed her mouth. Now she just stared at him for a while. She blinked a few times, as though to clear her head. And finally she found her voice and she said, “Sam, you’re too much. Here I was thinking it was kind of a game. You were saying you could find me and I was wondering if you really could—I was even kind of hoping you could. But I also really do need to rest and be lazy for a few weeks, and walking around foreign cities is good for me. I’m a city girl and I don’t need nature to restore my soul. I just need to be away from work. In Vienna, I can sit in a coffee house and drink one of the local brews—I hear they have more variations than Starbucks—and I can read my book, and not need to be anywhere, nor need to think about anything. I can take a walk in the Vienna Woods. I can watch those white horses. The Lipizzans. See their show. I hear you can watch their training sessions. Maybe I’ll do that.”
“It was thoughtless of me. And selfish.”
“I don’t want you to think that. Not at all.”
“I just wanted so much to see you.”
“Yeah, and I was thinking you must have really been some sort of spy because you said you worked in intelligence. I hoped you really could figure out how to find me. That was kind of romantic, the notion that maybe you were a spy—like maybe you were CIA.”
“My lips are sealed about that.” He laughed.
She laughed, too. “Vee haff vays to make you talk.” she said.
“I’ll bet you do.”
And right at that moment their breakfasts arrived. Sam waited till the cute waitress got all the plates settled in front of them, and left. “So, do we have a plan?” he asked.
Marge cut her sausage and speared a piece with her fork. “I’ll have to think about it.”
Sam loaded up his fork with scrambled eggs. “I won’t bug you about it. Not another word.” He looked around, and up at the sky. “We can talk about the weather.”
“It’s a great day,” she said. “Good flying weather.”
“Getting a bit nippy.”
“It’s fall.”
“Right.”
Then they both laughed.
“So,” she said. “You wanted to show me something this morning. Before you leave.”
“You’ll see. It’s not such a big deal. Except to me. Eat up, and then we can go.”
She knew he was eager to get to it, whatever it was, so she didn’t ask for a second cup of coffee. As soon as she’d finished her first, Sam got the check and paid it.
“Ready?” he said.
“Ready. Let’s go.”
They walked back toward the Lancaster Gate and then walked down the path that went past the Italian water gardens on their left. To their right, great swaths of lawn were beginning to lose their summer green, and all along the way the trees were turning autumn-colored, foliage that grew t
hicker as the path continued past the Long Water, where the path was bowered by trees that were all sunlit orange and russet and gold. He drew her hand through his arm. “Isn’t this park the greatest?” he said. “Whenever I’m in London, I try to find time to get over here for a visit. Especially right here, this path. This is where we’re headed.” A little farther on, the trees thinned and there was an open area to their right. Beyond a low iron railing that ran about a hundred feet or so, there was a clear space, and at its center, up a couple of low steps of round concrete platform, there was a statue. It was about fourteen, maybe fifteen feet tall, and there was the figure of a boy at its top, a boy astride the twisty, thick mass of small bronze figures below.
Sam led her through the gate and up to the platform.
“This is it,” he said. “This is what I want to show you.”
“This statue?”
“Yes,” he said, pointing up at the figure of the child. “See? It’s Peter Pan. Playing his pipe, up there on top of that pile of fairies and swirls and tangles of—I don’t know—trees, I guess, and caves and little animals, rabbits and mice and squirrels. Little woodland things. It’s been there for over a hundred years. Barrie himself helped create it and had it secretly installed overnight without any permission from anyone. As a surprise for London kids.”
Marge walked up to it and touched the cool metal. The little figures that made up the massive base, which was maybe ten feet tall, were so intricately entwined, it was difficult at first to make them out, but the little boy up at the top, his figure was very clear. A slim, life-size child, a boy of perhaps eight years, in a kind of short, fluttery night-shirt, astride the pedestal of fairies and little creatures, one arm outstretched to his right, the other holding out the long pipe he was playing; yes, of course she recognized him. This was Peter Pan, the boy who never grew up.
She studied the figure for a minute and then turned to look at Sam, who was studying her studying the boy. His face was lit up with pleasure at the sight.
“I didn’t know you were a Peter Pan fan,” she said.
“Oh, yeah. I really love this kid.”
“Because he never grew up?”
“That’s it.”
“And that’s what you wanted to show me?”
“That’s part of it.” He looked around, as though he wanted to be sure they were alone. “I’m going to tell you something I’ve never told anyone. And I’m going to show you something I bet no one else has ever seen.”
“I’m intrigued.”
He hesitated, as though to encourage himself to continue. And then he did.
“When I was a kid, I came here to London with my folks. Dad had business here and he decided to make a vacation of it and brought the whole family. Mom and me and my kid sisters. And one day, it was my twelfth birthday, and we’d had a sort of little party at a restaurant nearby, and then we all came here to see these gardens. And there was this guy with us, a business acquaintance of my dad’s, and he had given me a birthday gift, a book. It was called The Little White Bird, and it was written by J. M. Barrie and in it Barrie had included an earlier version of his Peter Pan story. In that story—it’s only a part of the bigger story, a few chapters—Peter is only a week old and stays only a week old forever and it takes place almost entirely here in Kensington Gardens around places any London kid who played in this park would have known. Like a New York kid would know the Alice in Wonderland statue in Central Park. Or the Sheep Meadow. Or the zoo.
“So, this friend of my dad said I should know that story, too, because it’s the original Peter Pan story and it’s different from the one most people know, and in a way it’s kind of sad. And because we were in the park anyway, he thought we should see this statue, so we came over here.
“Well, there was something about its being my birthday, and turning twelve, and feeling like I was going be all grown up—going to have to be all grown up—that made me look at this kid—” Sam gestured up at the bronze boy. “And I felt like I had to make some kind of permanent connection with him. Something that would keep the ‘boy’ part of me forever, no matter how much the rest of me grew up.” Sam paused, and he looked at Marge with an expression that seemed mischievous and sly and sad and cautious all at the same time. “You won’t tell anyone, will you?”
“I promise.” She wondered what she was getting herself into. But repeated it. “I promise. I won’t tell anyone.”
“Well, my dad had given me a Swiss Army knife for my birthday, and I had it in my pocket. And when they all went down the path, to watch the swans on the Serpentine, I stayed behind and I took that knife and—” he took her hand and led her around to the side of the statue, “—and here, I’ll show you.” He paused behind a spot about half-way up the base, under and just a bit behind Peter’s outstretched right arm. “Here.” He pointed to two bronze fairies, almost hidden in the swirls of the massive dark form. They seemed to be in a close embrace, the one turned forward but with her face turned back over her shoulder toward the other who, behind her, clasped her tightly, their bodies wrapped sensually together. They were about to kiss, the two heads close to each other, cheek against cheek.
“Don’t tell me—” Marge was surprised. Not at all something she’d have expected of Sam Packard, a congenitally good, honorable, law-abiding guy.
“Yes. I used that knife, and here,” he pointed to a spot, in a shadow just below a swirl of the fairy’s robe, she could see the tiny letters scratched into the bronze: “S.P.” For Sam Packard.
Marge was just shaking her head, her eyes fixed on his. She was speechless.
“Yes,” he said. “I did that.” He didn’t look at all remorseful. “I made this statue mine,” he said. “And whenever I’m in London, I come here and check it out. I make sure no one’s discovered it and had it polished out.”
“You’re not sorry, are you.” It was a statement, not a question. Was she disapproving? Maybe a bit, and maybe not.
“Not exactly—though, in a way, I am. Of course. Because I grew up. I learned not to do things like that.” A little sheepishly, he corrected himself. “No, even then, I knew I shouldn’t do it.” Then he shrugged. And laughed. “But there it is—my crime, etched in bronze. Leave it to me, if I’m going to commit a crime, I do it so it would be easy to catch me, and pin it on me. The evidence would last forever. Still, I know that practically every kid has some sort of little crime in their past. Shoplifting a candy bar. Spray painting someone’s garage door.”
“That’s true,” Marge said. “I once took a little bracelet of carved red beads because the color exactly matched the blouse I wearing. And I didn’t need to steal it. I had money. It just felt like an irresistible wickedness. Like something I had to do. I honestly felt that bracelet belonged to me and it had no business being displayed on a counter in a girls’ clothing store in a shopping mall. ”
“How old were you?”
“Eight.” She looked at that “S.P.” on the statue, and rubbed her thumb over it. “I still feel ashamed about that bracelet.”
“Well, that’s the thing. I never really felt ashamed about this.” He pointed to the scratches. “It was like I really needed to make a permanent declaration, somehow. That no matter how grown up I’d get to be, it was absolutely, vitally important that I not lose all of being a kid. Like it was a necessary part of being a real man, whatever that is. Maybe a way of saying no matter how much grown-up responsibility I’d be willing to take on, some piece of me would remain irresponsible. The piece of me that would need always to be taken care of. The piece of me that would never be able to grow up. Sometimes I think that’s a way of being able to be loved.” He stopped. He was thinking over what he’d just said, realizing it sounded pretty murky. Then he added, “I don’t know. Maybe that’s why Barrie needed to have Wendy in the story. And Mrs. Darling.”
“Something to think about,” Marge said.
; “Yeah. I guess. But here’s the thing, Marge. The reason I wanted you to come here with me, to see this statue—not just to see what I’d done to it. Not just to confess my crime to you. My little crime. I wanted you to think about your own growing up. And about keeping something for yourself that’s not grown up. That will never be grown up.”
And here, Sam took Marge’s face in both his hands, gently, as though they held a delicate flower, and lifted her head so that he could look deeply into her eyes. “Marge, my darling. I knew you when you were young. When we both were young. And you were a like a—oh, I don’t know—like a bubbling mountain stream, with the light dancing off you, all sparkly and flowing and full of changing colors. And I look for that girl now inside the strong, big-shot corporate executive you’ve become. Is she still inside there, inside the woman who runs a really huge enterprise, who hires and fires people, who’s so driven and so hard-working that she’s on the verge of collapse?”
Neither one of them spoke for a very long minute.
And then Sam wrapped his arms around her and held her very close and with his face close to hers, he said quietly, “And I saw you that night with Jerry and I saw no sign of that bubbly, sparkly girl. I saw nothing that told me that this was anything but a relationship of social convenience, two nice people who get along well enough, but neither of whom excites any passion in the other. A nice, business-like relationship. Efficient. Adequate. Maybe even long-lasting. Marge, darling, it breaks my heart.”
She could feel his heart beating against her chest, and knew that he must feel hers.
“Sam,” she whispered, “that night—the night of the prom—I’m so sorry. That shouldn’t have happened.”
“I know.”
“We shouldn’t have let it happen.”
“I know.
“But that was so long ago. And no matter what you say, I’m not that girl any more. And Jerry has been an important part of my life. Six years now.”
“I know.”
Who Would You Choose? Page 13