Muriel Jensen - That Summer In Maine

Then nothing had separated them but eight years and a stockade fence between his parents’ property in Arlington and the Lawtons’, but that had changed considerably since she’d moved to Europe.

She was now the much-adored star of the London stage, and the widow of a prominent banker, while he was the single father of two, who owned and operated a security company. He had a staff of forty who’d helped him acquire a worldwide reputation among the noble and the famous who needed protection. The living was good, with a penthouse apartment in Manhattan and a very large waterfront home on the coast of Maine where he and the boys spent the summers.

“What I fear the most,” Elliott confided as he paced the broad deck that looked out on the ocean, “is that…she’ll be happy to let it all go bad.”

Charlie March, Duffy’s father, who’d flown the light plane that had brought them here from Arlington right after the State Department called Charlie with the news, caught his friend’s arm and pushed him into a chair. “Sit down, Elliott, before we have to resuscitate you.”

Charlie sat beside him and shook his head grimly at his son. “She’s had a sort of death wish since she lost Harry and the boys. He’s afraid she’ll do something reckless and…you know.”

“Tell me you can go to France,” Elliott pleaded, on his feet and ignoring his drink. “I know the gendarmes will do all they can, but with six hostages and men with guns everywhere, I’m so afraid she’ll literally get caught in the crossfire. I can get you clearance to accompany them. And you have your own connections there, don’t you? Didn’t you work for a member of the French parliament once?”

He nodded. Gaston Dulude, who’d waged war against a band of French drug dealers, had wanted protection for his wife and himself as the case went to trial.

“Of course I’ll go to France,” Duffy assured him, “but my housekeeper’s on vacation. You’ll have to stay with Mike and Adam, Dad.”

Charlie nodded. “Of course.”

“I’ll stay, too,” Elliott promised. “What can we do to help you get ready?”

“You can get me that clearance, Mr. Lawton,” Duffy said, pointing to the phone, “while I get myself a flight to Paris.”

“Just get packed,” Elliott said. “I’ll get you a plane, too.”

As Duffy headed for the stairs, the back door slammed and his boys came racing through the kitchen into the living room. They’d been at a birthday party for the Baker twins, boys Mike’s age who lived two doors over.

Mike, seven, led the way, stick-straight black hair flopping in his eyes, the red sweater and jeans that had been pristine just a few hours ago now smeared with food or finger paints, or both. Four-year-old Adam followed in his dust, the food and finger paints smeared across his face as well as his clothes. He had Lisa’s fair good looks and passionate personality.

The boys ignored Duffy completely and went straight for their grandfather. “I saw your car, Grandpa!” Mike exclaimed.

Wisely, Charlie sat down as Mike flew into his lap. Adam followed, wrapping his arm gleefully around his grandfather’s neck. Duffy saw Elliott turn away, holding the phone to his ear and blocking the other so that he could hear, using the call as an excuse to be able to focus his attention elsewhere.

It had to be hard for him, Duffy guessed, to see Charlie enveloped by his grandchildren when he’d never see his own again.

“Are you staying for dinner?” Mike asked.

As Duffy topped the stairs, he heard his father reply that he was staying a little longer than that.

Duffy had packed a small bag, made a call to his office in New York and was ready to go when the boys rushed into his room as though pursued. Mike always traveled at top speed, and Adam was determined that his older brother never escape him.

Duffy sat on the edge of his bed to explain his sudden departure.

“When are you coming back?” Mike climbed up next to him and leaned into his arm, looking worried. “Grandpa said he didn’t know.”

“I think three or four days,” Duffy replied, lifting Adam onto his knee. “If it’s going to be longer, I’ll call you.”

“Grandpa said you’re going to help a friend.”

“Yes.”

“He said bad guys took her and you have to get her back.”

“Yes. But I’m going to have a lot of help.”

Mike sighed. “You won’t get shot, right, ’cause you always know what you’re doing?”

Duffy liked to think Mike’s faith in him wasn’t misplaced. “That’s right. I’ll be fine. And so will she. I’ll be back home before you know it.”

“You’re friends with a girl?” Adam asked. He screwed up his pink-cheeked face into a ripple of nose, lips and chin, and crossed his bright blue eyes. “We don’t have any girls around here ’cause we don’t like ’em.”

Duffy laughed and squeezed him close. “I like them. I just don’t happen to have one. But I would if I could.”

That was apparently beyond Adam’s comprehension. “They’re silly and they’re afraid of snakes.”

“I thought you were afraid of snakes,” Mike needled.

Adam shrugged off the reminder. “That was when I was little.”

Mike rolled his eyes at Duffy. “He’s a real giant now,” he said under his breath.

Adam socked him on the shoulder.

Duffy caught his hand and reminded, “Hey! No hitting, remember? And no giving Grandpa any trouble while I’m gone. He’s getting older and he can’t chase you down or climb trees to get you when you’ve gone too high.”

“If we’re perfect,” Mike bargained, “can we go to Disney World before summer’s over?”

They’d talked about that a few times during the year, and though Duffy had made no promises, it was on his agenda.

“You think you can be perfect?” Duffy teased Mike.

Mike nodded, then qualified that with his head tilted in Adam’s direction. “But I’m not sure he can do it.”

“I can, too!” Adam raised a fist to punch him again, then at Duffy’s expression, thought better of it and withdrew it. “What is perfect?”

“It means really, really good,” Mike informed him. “No mistakes.”

Duffy lifted Adam onto his hip and let Mike drag his overnight bag toward the stairs. “Perfect’s a little hard to strive for. Just listen to Grandpa, stay in the yard like you’re supposed to, unless Grandpa says it’s okay to go next door, and eat your vegetables.”

Adam made another face as they started down the stairs. “What if Grandpa makes eggplant like Desiree does sometimes?”

“I’ll ask him not to.” Duffy turned to Mike, who struggled with the bag. “Want me to take that?”

Mike shook his head. “I got it, Dad.”

Duffy watched Mike with love and pride, and thought as he had many times over the past three years, that taking him had been one of the best moves he’d ever made.

At the bottom of the stairs, Charlie took the bag from Mike.

“I’m flying you to Kennedy,” he said, “to meet an old CIA pal of Elliott’s who’s taking you to Paris. Elliott’s staying with the boys.”

“Tell him about the eggplant!” Adam whispered loudly in Duffy’s ear.

THE FOLLOWING DAY Duffy lay on his stomach in the grass at the top of a slope in the Pyrenees. A dozen gendarmes were ranged around him, looking down on the Basque camp in the meadow below. The air was sweet with wildflowers, the whispered sounds around him spoken in an unfamiliar language, and somewhere in that meadow, the woman who’d saved his life when she was a teenager waited for rescue. It if weren’t for the glare in his eyes and the itch of grass and insects under his black sweater, he’d think this wasn’t real.

But it was. He peered through binoculars to the scene below and saw men in camouflage and berets—the separatists. Then he noticed two men, hands tied behind their backs, sitting under a tree, and two women, hands also tied, one lying on the ground, presumably asleep, the other walking agitatedly back and forth. She was slender and moved as though she was young. He tried to focus on their faces, but they were too far away.