That Summer In Maine. Muriel Jensen
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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.”
He wasn’t sure why, but the words didn’t ring true. He was sure there was always someplace to go and something to do, but he didn’t think that assuaged her loneliness.
“Have a hot bath and a good sleep,” she said, blowing him a kiss, “and I’ll take you somewhere wonderful for dinner. Then we can arrange to send you home on the Concorde.”
She closed the door on him before he could tell her that he might go home on the Concorde, but he wasn’t going alone.
MAGGIE DIDN’T KNOW why she was shaking. She didn’t think this was fear. She’d kept her head throughout their captivity—well, except for when she’d mistaken Duffy for one of her captors and that had been an honest mistake—and the danger was over now. Everything that could hurt her had been dealt with effectively by Duffy March and the gendarmerie.
So, why was she shaking? She’d showered, put on her favorite white silk negligee, then found herself trembling like a pudding. She had to pull Duffy’s sweater back over her head to try to stop it.
Delayed reaction? she wondered, as she climbed in under the covers. But how could that be when she hadn’t really cared what had happened? When she’d simply shut down everything that could make her care?
Then it came to her. It was Duffy. It was that glimpse of life as it had been once, when it all still lay ahead of her full of hope and expectation. It was remembering the heroic little boy he’d been, determined to battle the asthma that plagued him, so that he could live a normal life.
Well, he’d certainly done it, she thought, reaching for her address book and phone. He’d grown tall and strong with the proportions and confidence of a tested athlete. She guessed he’d outgrown the asthma. She remembered that he’d embarked on a regimen to strengthen his muscles—and had been smart enough to know that the plan should include his brain. They’d often done homework together when she’d stayed with him, she fighting to understand the secrets of geometry that eluded her, and he doing extra reading in the subjects that interested him.
She closed her eyes and thought, with a lessening of the tremors, that it was good she’d had that glimpse of the old days. She could never be that Maggie again, but it was good to remember—though not for too long.
It wasn’t going to help to call her father, but she had to. She knew how much he worried about her in normal circumstances; she could just imagine what her kidnapping had done to him. She hadn’t seen him since the funeral, had resisted his pleas that she come home for a visit, because she’d have to be herself at home and she couldn’t face that yet. She got by only by playing role after role that allowed her to be someone else.
“Oh, Maggie!” he breathed when he heard her voice. “Sweetheart, I was so worried about you.”
“I know, Dad. I’m sorry.” She was grateful that her voice sounded strong and even. “I’m fine, I promise. And it’s such a treat to see Duffy.”
“I knew he’d keep you safe.”
“That he did.”
“Maggie…” He paused and she knew he was building up to something. “I want you to come home for a visit.”
“Daddy, I want to,” she lied, “but I have eight performances a week and I…”
“Don’t you have an understudy or something? I mean, didn’t someone else have to go on for you while you were kidnapped?”
She searched her mind frantically for a viable excuse.
“And, you know, I don’t like to worry you, but I haven’t been all that well since the attack, and I’d like to know…”
She sat up and leaned forward. “What attack?”
He hesitated.
“What attack?” she repeated.
“The heart attack.”
Her first thought was that he was putting her on—manipulating her. But he’d never done that before. And since she’d lost Harry and the boys, he tried particularly hard not to worry her.
“When did this happen?” she demanded. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Well…because