Muriel Jensen - That Summer In Maine

Of course, she’d just been through a great trial, but he had a feeling that wasn’t the problem. There was a certain flatness in her glance that had probably been there for a while, a disturbingly even rhythm to her speech and movements that seemed to indicate a lack of interest. Though, when she’d thought he represented death just a few moments ago, she’d fought him like a tiger. He wondered if the lack of interest was something she’d simply decided upon rather than something she sincerely felt.

He ripped off the black sweater he wore and pushed it on over her head, pulling it down over her thin jacket.

She looked surprised and seemed about to protest when the warmth of it apparently penetrated and she rubbed her arms to help it along.

“You once knew me very well,” he replied, drawing her with him toward the group. Eduard’s men had been handcuffed and were already being sent down the mountain with the Gendarmes. “You stayed the night with me many times.”

Now she raised an eyebrow. “I did?”

“You did. We sat up until all hours talking.”

She was staring at him in complete confusion, her pale lips temptingly parted. He had to look away from them.

“You made caramel corn and brownies,” he went on, “and we watched Dallas together.”

He saw realization light up her eyes. Then she gasped and pushed him with both hands. “Duffy March!” she exclaimed, smiling, and shoved him again. Then she wrapped her arms around him and held him tightly.

Her embrace was intense. He was smart enough to know it had nothing to do with him but with the fact that he was a tie to the happy life she’d lived before fame and tragedy had taken so much from her.

“Oh, Duffy,” she whispered, clutching him even tighter.

He winced, a burning pinch on the outside of his upper arm.

“You’ve been shot!” she exclaimed, ripping a scarf from around her neck and holding it to his blood-soaked sleeve.

“Just nicked me,” he said, drawing her back into his arms.

He kissed the top of her head and held her close. “Hi, Maggie,” he said.

“But what are you doing here?” she demanded, still smiling.

“Your father sent me,” he replied. She’d stopped in her tracks again and he coaxed her forward. “It’s kind of a long story and should probably be saved for the ride home. Right now the police will want to talk to you.”

It was several hours before the police were finished with Maggie and her party, and a doctor took care of Duffy’s shoulder. Duffy called home to tell her father that she was safe.

“Thank God!” he exclaimed prayerfully, then added, “I owe you, son.”

“I was happy to help.”

“Will you ask her to call me when you finally get her home? It doesn’t matter what time.”

“She’s insisting on flying home tonight, so it’ll probably be early morning.”

“I’ll wait for your call.”

Her friends were all going back to the count’s place to recover from the ordeal, but Maggie declined his invitation.

“You’re going to fly to London tonight?” the man she’d introduced as her agent asked. “That’ll be exhausting.”

“I’m already exhausted,” she replied, giving him a hug. “And my friend, here, has gotten us a flight.” Then she hugged the rest of the group in turn.

He blessed her father’s CIA connections as he happily accepted her praise and gratitude.

They caught up on the way home—what she’d been doing, what he’d been doing.

She skipped over the loss of her husband and children with a falsely philosophical “And every life has its ups and downs, my downs were just more abysmal than most people’s.” Then she gave him a phony smile. “But my career’s ongoing, I work all the time, and I like that. When did you go into security?”

“After the Army. I was young and strong and felt invincible.” He reached overhead to adjust the air in her direction. “I guess there just wasn’t enough threat to my life, so I went looking for it in other people’s by going to work as a bodyguard. Went off on my own after a year. Our headquarters are in New York, but we work all over the world.”

“I love New York. It’s like a slightly less dignified London.”

They compared lives in the big city, she told him she did needlework for relaxation and he told her he loved to prowl garage sales, refinish old furniture, make useful items out of junk and that one day when he retired he would open a shop.

“I’m never going to retire,” she said in the taxi that drove them from Heathrow to Wandsworth Common, a tony part of London. “They’re going to have to drag me off the stage when I die in Baldy’s arms.”

“Baldy?”

“My actor friend. You met him at the police station. The one with the attitude. We work together a lot.”

“Isn’t his wife jealous?” He couldn’t imagine any woman willingly letting her husband kiss Maggie Lawton, whether it was in the script or not.

She shook her head. “After three wives, he’s a confirmed bachelor. And since all his wives were actresses, the fact that I’m a confirmed bachelor girl simplifies his life. Saves him from falling in love with me.” She added as an aside, “He always falls in love with his leading lady.”

“Isn’t it bad for an actor to be so confused?”

“Not at all. Being unable to tell your real life from your stage life is the sign of a good actor.”

“How do you stay sane that way?”

She rolled her head on the back of the cab’s upholstery and grinned at him. “Who told you actors were sane?”

Her home was unlike anything he’d ever seen, except in movies. The substantial Victorian she lived in was huge and almost two hundred years old, similar in design to the other residences near the lush park. The grass, the potted flowers in the doorway and the rich vanilla color of the stone walls glistened in the early morning light as she unlocked her door.

Inside, the ceilings were high, the windows long and draped in gold brocade. Off-white silk fabric adorned the walls, which were hung with paintings that he guessed were originals.

The furnishings were formal and elegant, he noted, as he wandered after Maggie through a vast living room with a marble fireplace and up a mahogany staircase to an upstairs flooded with sunlight.

“Eponine is away for a week, thank God,” she said as she pushed open a door and gestured him inside. “Or she’d be weeping all over me. She’s very emotional.”

“Friend? Housekeeper?”

“Both,” she replied. “I’ve tried to talk her into auditioning for a role. I think she’d be a natural. But she says she’d worry about who would take care of me.”

He had to meet this Eponine, he thought. And put her mind to rest.

“I promised your father you’d call him as soon as you got home,” he said as he walked into a bedroom decorated in brown and gold, with old maps on the wall and a fireplace. Everything required for a small office was at one end, while the other was set up for luxurious sleeping. He whistled softly at the elegance of it.

He wondered if this had been her husband’s office but didn’t want to ask.

“I sold the house in Devon when…after the accident.” She hesitated only an instant, but the quick diversion suggested she still couldn’t say, “when they died.” He could certainly understand that. He couldn’t imagine losing his boys and ever coming to a point when he could accept it.

“I’ve always loved the city,” she went on, going to a door at the far end of the room to show him there was a very elegant bathroom there complete with hot tub. “You can’t be lonely here. There’s always someplace to go and something to do.”