A Winter’s Tale

On a bluff overlooking Lake Michigan on a January day, a figure in a mink coat sat on a bench in Juneau Park. Joe presumed it was a woman because what Milwaukee man would be wearing a mink coat in the middle of the day?

His next chore was to visit his father, who had shrunken into his wheelchair, lost to Alzheimer’s. Every other visit, Joe would be unable to rouse him and sit quietly until he felt he’d fulfilled his daily obligation. When his father was functioning, the words would be disjointed, but at least he still recognized his son, if he couldn’t come up with a name.

His car’s side window was half-frosted over, but Joe could see that the hair on the head matched the color of the coat. He decided to call it sable brown, since he didn’t think there was a mink brown.

He sat in his parked car, engine running, heater on, for a good fifteen minutes, watching the woman. What brought her to the park on such a cloudy, dismal day? Sure, the coat would be warm, but there wasn’t much to see. An impenetrable white cloud concealed the lake. The leaf-less trees didn’t hide the sight of traffic on Lake Shore Drive, the dirty snow piled high alongside, empty chip bags and candy wrappers visible in the piles.

He wondered if the mink-clad woman had wandered away from the elder-care facility. If he showed concern, would she gaze vacantly upon him, trying to decide whether they were somehow related?

Joe cut the engine and, spurning the cleared sidewalk, walked straight towards the bench, each step breaking the crust on the snow. He thought the woman would surely react to the noise, turn, a look of concern spreading across her face, and hurry off in one direction or another, and he’d take the spot she’d warmed.

The woman didn’t react, even when Joe sat down. She was hunched into the coat, to protect her ears, Joe presumed, and perhaps her eyes, too. Joe looked off into the distance as she did and wondered what images she saw. They would have to be bleak.

“At least the holidays are over,” he said. He hated the holidays and the expectation of being in good cheer, especially at the elder-care facility. He didn’t expect the woman to reply, assuming that she was barely containing her alarm. A gull passed in front of them slowly and circled back, as if checking out a potential meal. A big meal. “The days are getting longer. It’ll be noticeable in another month.”

He didn’t look but sensed that she’d extended her neck from the carapace of her coat. Two gulls were now circling.

“A little sunshine would be nice,” she said.

It was a young voice, definitely not feeble. He said, “Tomorrow, if the forecasts are right.”

“They never are.”

He heard this directed his way, so he turned and looked into her eyes. They were deep brown, obscuring the pupil, with circles under them, as if she’d cried recently. Still, her face was pretty, if blotchy from the cold. Her age indeterminate, although certainly not teenaged. Mid-forties?

“They get lucky sometimes,” he said.

She half-smiled and faced forward. Dipped her neck back into her carapace. “When the sun shines, it’s colder.”

Joe settled back and extended his left arm, his gloved hand a few inches from her shoulder, and looked into the cloud over the lake. He was surprised that he didn’t feel cold. Although he’d grown up in Milwaukee, he hated the winters, and this was a bad one. The ground had been covered with snow since mid-November.

He sighed heavily. The woman shifted towards him. He lifted his hand, and she slid next to him. He wrapped his arm around her.

“That doesn’t look like much of a coat,” she said as she pulled her head back into the carapace.

“Goose down.”

“Nothing under your butt.”

“True.”

A moment passed when he thought of nothing, only sensed the life that sparked through the mink. Since she wasn’t a resident of the elder-care facility, she must live in the luxury lake-front condos behind them. She would have a rich name, Louisa, and a rich husband, Lloyd. Their friends would call them the charmed L couple.

Was she waiting for him to try something? Stroke her back, squeeze her closer? She’d expressed concern about the quality of his coat. Was she trying to warm him? She probably thought he was some nutcase but took comfort that he was being respectful. He imagined that, other than the concierge in her building, this was the only conversation she’d had today. The first person she’d touched in two days.

She wished this stranger would say something else. Lawrence, her husband, grew more distant every day. Since they’d moved out of the family home, with all of its memories, and into the lakefront condo, there’d been fewer friends to see, fewer activities to amuse. Their children, twin boys, had made a point of traveling to different colleges far away. She took it as a hopeful sign of independence then but missed them very much now. Missed the anticipation of their return from school. The endless practices and games that she’d ferried them to. She so wished she had that connection now.

She’d lost track of how much time she’d spent on the bench. She wasn’t even sure if she was cold. She loved this coat, even though she wondered if Lawrence had given it to her at Christmas to atone for an indiscretion, a silent admission, an invitation to an argument that they’d never had.

 

 

 

Altered Reality

Ben felt eerily unsettled, a sensation that stretched beyond the darkness of his surroundings. It came to him that he was in the bedroom of the new place, an old house in the Dublin Mountains. He remembered that Mary had warned him before she’d left for the weekend that she’d turned off the heat. Why had she done that? Oh, yes. The novelty of a sunny day, a touch of warmth in the air.

He threw back the covers. Where’d he put his pants? What did it matter? He was in the wilds. Who could see anything? He felt his way out of the room and down the unfamiliar staircase. Odd that he felt so unsettled over the prospect of waking in the morning without heat. He wasn’t chilled now. Where was that thermostat again? In the kitchen? If he turned on the lights he’d be blinded and awakened further.

He found the thermostat. How did it work? He felt the small rectangle for clues. Here it was, a sliding switch. He flicked it from one side to the other. That should do it.

God, it was dark. No streetlights up here. He really should go back to bed, or at least put something on.

He sensed that someone lurked in the house. He froze. He listened. No sounds. Was the intruder just beyond the doorway in a similar posture, listening for movement?

Arm yourself.

Ben felt for the kitchen counter and then for the knife block. The butcher’s knife. Substantial in his hand. Sharp. He inched his way forward.

A luminous presence floated in the living room. Gaping in amazement, Ben watched. It, no, she was wearing a full-length, long-sleeved white wedding dress and gloves; all her skin was covered. She wore a veil that obscured her face. A buxom figure. Definitely keeping time to music. One, two, three, he counted the tempo. A waltz. He felt like a voyeur, a violator, blatantly naked in the presence of such virginal beauty. He couldn’t take his eyes away.

How long did he watch? An eternity. He noticed that the dress had a lace bodice and seemed modern, though perhaps it would be found in a vintage fashion shop. The foundation garments were modern. She wasn’t bound up in a corset. She had a normal shape, and there was a natural sway to her bosom. Her arms were raised as though holding a partner. She was light on her feet, drifting gracefully. She commanded the room and swept through furniture like it wasn’t there. She was familiar with the space. She’d occupied if for far longer than Ben and Mary, their paltry three days not even registering on this spirit’s calendar. The dance completed, she bowed to her invisible partner. Ben watched her profile, as though he was in a stage’s wing.

She straightened, turned his way, and faded, like a bulb darkening as the dimmer is turned.

He was shivering. Was he dreaming? No, definitely awake, and a long way from returning to sleep. If he needed further proof he realized he’d cut himself in the thigh with the butcher knife. He felt the wound. Definitely blood. He tasted his finger just to be totally sure. Yes.

He rejected the idea of ghosts. He must’ve dreamt this, awoken, and somehow visualized the dream in the living room.

Where was the light switch? He couldn’t remember. He inched to his right, arms outstretched. He could see nothing. Had the vision blinded him? The knife blade struck a solid object. The wall? He felt with his free hand. Furniture, a bookcase. He put the knife on one of the shelves and found the wall behind the bookcase. Which way should he turn?

He felt blood seep down his leg, going from hair to hair. He needed to tend to this wound. Where was the damn light switch? A doorway. Surely around here. No. The other side? He found it.

The light flashed as the neon gas warmed and then revealed the kitchen. He waited for his eyes to adjust. He looked at the stream of blood on his leg. He’d given himself a nasty cut, not wide but apparently deep to cause such a flow. A stab. How could he be so careless with the knife?

He went to the sink and washed the wound; the trickle had reached the middle of his shin. It took a lot of washing. He wadded a paper towel and applied pressure. Where were the Band-Aids? He couldn’t remember unpacking them. Mary could’ve put them anywhere. Part of the continuing saga of their marriage was that she was completely random in storing items; she never put anything back where it came from. “What’s the point?” she’d say. “I’m going to have to look for it the next time I want it.” So he was constantly searching for stuff.

He was quaking. Was it that cold? What to do? He saw the coat rack by the door. He donned his parka and dropped the paper towel to zip up the coat. Better, but his legs were bare; his feet were freezing on the tile floor. He got another paper towel, reapplied pressure and hobbled into the living room. There was a blanket in there somewhere.

He detected a faint ozone smell as he walked to the sofa. Where did that come from? He needed to get a grip. Maybe he was going into shock? He switched on the nearby lamp. It was a leather sofa. It would feel cold on his naked legs. Where was the damn blanket? It was magenta-colored, polyester, very warm. He mindfully examined the room. No sign of it. Had Mary taken it upstairs? He decided it was probably not purposely put anywhere. Indeed. He found it in a heap behind the sofa.

The pressure was working. He’d nearly staunched the flow. He sat sideways on the sofa, his legs up and wrapped in the throw, his right hand pressing the towel against his wound. Still he quaked. He must be in shock. Should he call an ambulance? Where was the damn phone? Charging, upstairs.

His mind raced, seeking an explanation for the ethereal dance. Ben was a respected, retired scientist, and ghosts had never been proven to exist. Therefore, he saw something else. Or nothing.

I will occupy this room to see if the phenomenon recurs.

He awoke on the couch, his neck throbbing in pain. Shit, everything ached. He shifted on the sofa, trying to find a comfortable spot. No luck. He was far too old to sleep on a sofa.

He was drenched with sweat. Why was he in a parka? The room felt warm to his exposed skin. He fought to get his legs free of the blanket, and then his thigh was bleeding. What the hell? The sun was up and reached to the far corners of the room. He saw on the bookcase the blade of the butcher knife, reflecting a ray of morning sunshine. Ah, yes. He knew why he was bleeding.

He remembered the dream with a shudder. No more spicy food in the evening. He wouldn’t want that to be a recurring event.

He took a long, hot shower and tended his wound. He found a plaster in his travel kit. There was a razor in there, too, and he removed the hair around the wound. He needed the plaster to stick because he intended to go back to bed. He felt as though he hadn’t slept a wink.

All he did was toss and turn, so he got up and got dressed. He had things to do. He’d stayed in the new place to bring it closer to organization. He’d learned that it was easier without Mary’s help. They’d moved often while he pursued his scientific career and had had fourteen different addresses in the States.

She’d wanted to live in Ireland and get in touch with their Irish roots for some time. In their year here they’d had three addresses. The other two had been convenient to public transit. Now they were car-dependent again. He didn’t think it was a good idea, but Mary was intent on having an Irish experience. Hence the old stone house in the country.

Ben stopped his work for lunch and realized he hadn’t eaten breakfast. He fried eggs and bacon and threw a chopped up, leftover, baked potato into the pan to warm up. He was happy with the progress he’d made. He’d found several items he’d been looking for. He’d organized his clothes in the wardrobe and set up his office in the spare bedroom. His files were situated in a box close to the ironing board that held his laptop. Barely adequate, but it would have to do until he could get a proper desk.

After the meal he went to the office and opened his computer. He was writing a biography of his grandfather, a Protestant who had fled County Cork in 1921. Ben well-remembered his grandfather and had listened in fascination to his tale of escape from a burning house, refuge with a sympathetic neighbor, near misses, and, finally, safety aboard a steamer to New York.  Ben had been making good progress on the biography before this move to Ireland but hadn’t been able to revisit his task. Now he was completely derailed. He couldn’t get the dream out of his head. He kept thinking that it wasn’t a dream, but, dammit, ghosts weren’t real.

He decided to take a walk. Down the road lived his landlady. She was in the garden and hailed Ben as he passed.

“Lovely day, isn’t it, Mister Sterling.”

“Yes, indeed. The sun’s always welcome.”

He admired her garden. They agreed to drop the formalities and use first names.

“Have you met my auntie, Ben?”

He was taken aback by this question, as he guessed that Orla was as old as he was. Her aunt must be ancient.

“No, I haven’t. Where does she live?”

“In your house.”

“Up there?”

“Yes. I thought to warn you. Your Mary told me that she was going away for the weekend, and Aunt Abby tends to show herself to males. She’s a ghost, you see.”

Ben felt his heart pounding.

“She doesn’t show herself to women for some reason. I’ve never seen her. A very sad story. Perhaps one you could undertake after your current project?”

 “I don’t believe in ghosts.”

Orla smiled. “She wears her wedding gown, or so I’ve been told. The last tenant, a male UCD student, I warned him. He thought he wouldn’t mind but broke the lease after one month. He wasn’t sleeping at all. It was evident. He was very argumentative and threatened legal action.” She studied his face. “I dealt with Mary, you see. When there are couples, Abby tends to stay hidden. With the two of you, well, a warning seemed unnecessary.” The gaze softened. She smiled. “There was no intent to deceive. Abby comes and goes. One tenant lived there for ten years with no sightings.” She tilted her head, awaiting a response.

“Why does she wear a wedding gown?” His voice sounded odd to his ear.

“The poor girl. She was in love with a lad her age, but her father betrothed her to a wealthy widower, a much older man. Her new husband saw her dancing with her beloved at the wedding reception, and his heart blackened. He shot the lad and insisted he was poaching. Abby returned to her father’s house and hanged herself in the barn, where her father was sure to find her. She was only nineteen. My mother was twelve when it happened.”

He couldn’t think of a thing to say.

“I’ve never lived up there, so I’m only telling you what I’ve heard. The young fellow said Abby followed him around the house, but he was hysterical. I don’t think you need worry about that.”

“I thought I saw Abby last night. She was dancing.”

“People say she wears her wedding dress.”

“I didn’t believe my eyes.”

“Oh, believe them.”

He thought he should feel relief but didn’t. His mind was reeling.

When he didn’t reply she added, “I hope you aren’t upset with me. Abby is only a ghost, so there’s no reason to be afraid.”

“Yes, or no, I mean.”

“We do have a lease. It’s a lovely view up there. The house is modernized, and the rent is good value.” She closed the short distance between them and touched his arm. “Would you like to come in for tea?” Her face was etched with concern.

“Oh, no. Thank you.”

“It’s no bother at all. I was ready to stop my gardening.”

“No. I must be on my way.”

“Please come in. You don’t look well.”

“Thank you.”

He stepped off purposely and kept a good pace. He had no idea where he was going or how far he walked. He came to pub and entered. It was very noisy and full of people. He retreated to a corner and watched. He began to make sense of what was happening. People were laughing, talking, and drinking. A rugby match played on the telly.

There was a fork on the nearby counter. He stabbed himself in the hand. He was sure the sensation was pain. He didn’t know where he was, but he was awake. He decided that he’d must’ve dreamed the conversation with Orla and somehow been transported to this pub. There was no other logical explanation.

 

 

 

Christmas Shopping

Don saw an attractive woman walk into the resort’s bar. She wore a black dress that clung to her figure and high high heels. From across the room he could tell her eyes were blue. Her blonde hair hung past her shoulders. Beautiful face. He was partially hidden by the Christmas tree so felt secure in examining her. As she turned to take in the room he saw that her dress was scooped in the back to the point that he thought she must not be wearing a bra, but he remembered how her bosom swelled up in front and realized that couldn’t be true. She surveyed the room coolly, critically, aware that she was attracting admiring glances from the men. Who is she looking for, he wondered?

“Not one of them is paying any attention to grandma,” Sarah said.

He refocused on the family grouping that occupied two large sofas in the center of the room. A matronly woman seated at one sofa’s end gazed at the glass of wine in her hand. Two women, her daughters by the looks of them, sat across from each other staring intently at iPad screens. Five children occupied the rest of the sofas, each completely engaged with an electronic device. The fathers perched on the arms of the sofas, away from their mother-in-law, scrolling their iPhones. The coffee table between the sofas was covered with glasses and plates of food which drew no interest.

“Surely the youngest ones don’t have phones of their own,” Don said. “They must be borrowing their moms’.”

“Grandma’s paying for this holiday, and they’re ignoring her! That’s why she looks so glum.”

“Families at Christmas. The never-ending story.”

Kathy saw several clusters of families scattered around the room. She was in no mood to deal with children high on Christmas sugar. There were no stools at the bar. She’d have tolerated a good chat with an interesting barman. Where to land, she wondered as she moved further into the room, aware of admiring looks from the men. Her ear caught an unusual cadence. Yanks! A couple sat at a table with three chairs. Perfect. They shared a laugh as she approached. A nice touch for an older couple. “Is this chair taken?”

Don smiled broadly. “No. Help yourself.”

Kathy returned the smile and sat in the chair. She noted the woman’s surprise at being joined. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, not at all. My name’s Sarah.” She offered her hand.

“Kathy.” She noted the firm handshake and assessed that this woman had a career in business. She guessed her to be older than her husband and comfortable in their relationship to the point of being relaxed in her upkeep. She wore only lipstick.

“Don.” The man’s grip was also firm. There was an untidiness about him that she found alluring. He needed a haircut and a shave. Yanks on vacation know how to let themselves go.

“What can I get you to drink?” Don started to rise from his chair.

Kathy pressed a restraining hand against his arm. “No, no. This is on me.” She noted the dark liquid in their glasses. “Sorry,” she shouted at a waiter, her voice projecting over the noise in the room. The waiter approached obediently. “Have you any Redbreast cask strength whiskey? Three double shots. A generous pour, please. Charge it all to my room.” She gave the waiter the room number, a broad smile, and wink. She waited on him to withdraw. “They hardly give you enough to taste these days. Now, what brings you to Ulster for Christmas?”

“A slick brochure in the Irish Times advertising this Christmas program,” Sarah said.

Kathy noted a hint of mirth in Sarah’s voice. “I wouldn’t think that paper would be available in the States.”

“Well, we’ve lived in Dublin for over a year. We’ve never been north and thought it was a good opportunity. Have you been to the Loch Ennis Resort before?”

“No, first time for me. You’re working in Dublin, then?”

“We’re semi-retired,” Don said.

“Really? To Ireland? Whatever for?”

“Sarah’s mother was born in Clare, and my grandparents emigrated from Wexford. We’re Irish, complete with passports.”

“Are you from here?” Sarah asked.

“London.”

“You’re British then? I thought I heard a Dublin accent.”

I have underestimated you. “Your ear is true. I’m born in Dublin, but I’ve lived in London for years. I’m surprised you’ve come to Northern Ireland, what with the Union Jack row that’s going on. I nearly didn’t come.”

“What do you make of it?”

“The problem is unemployment. There’s nothing for these lads to do except yell and break things. I wouldn’t worry about it reaching us here.”

Sarah nodded. “I feel sorry for the Belfast merchants. They’ve lost their Christmas sales.”

“Some of them won’t survive,” Don added.

Kathy regretted introducing the subject. “Is your family here with you?”

“Well, we’re both only children and never had our own,” Sarah said, disappointment growing in her voice as she continued. “Our parents have passed, so it’s just us. We were hoping there would be more of a program than what’s listed.”

“I haven’t seen it. What’s in store?”

“Very little. I think the tinkling of the piano is the advertised music.”

“We were hoping for traditional music,” Don added.

“Don’t I hear a carol?” Kathy asked.

“Irish traditional music. Something livelier than Silent Night.”

The waiter approached.

“Ah, perfect timing.” Kathy accepted one glass from the waiter, examined it critically, and smiled at the contents. “Good man. Don’t forget us back here, please. There will be more to come.” She repeated her room number, smiled at Don, and handed the waiter a five-pound note.

“Now,” Kathy said. “To a Happy Christmas.”

They clinked glasses and sipped. Don inhaled the aroma of Redbreast. “I’ve never had this before. It’s very smooth. Thank you.”

“Yes, thanks very much.”

“My pleasure.” Kathy inhaled her drink, sipped, and tried to relax. Her back was to the room. She had only her table companions and the Christmas tree to watch. How long will I find this interesting?

When Kathy arrived at the resort and discovered the email from Louis, her lover, saying that he would stay with his wife over Christmas, she’d nearly driven the rental car straight back to Derry airport and flown home to London. The coward had sent the message after her arrival. She immediately dialed his phone, but the call went straight to voice mail. Only the thought of being alone in her apartment over the holiday kept her here. Louis had booked the room and provided his credit card number to the resort, so she felt it her duty to run up as big a tab as possible. I’ll make him regret this insult.

I’m obviously in the market for a new lover, but the pickings will be slim here. She half-listened to the story of what brought Don and Sarah to Dublin. How tempt-able is he?

Don worried as Sarah talked. She’s telling it too long, too many details. He realized that Kathy had also drifted away and studied her carefully. He decided that she’d applied too much make-up. In desperation? She must be hiding a great disappointment to be so beautiful and alone over Christmas.

Sarah’s voice faltered. Don looked at her and patted her arm. “The main reason we came was because we could.”

Sarah perked up.  “Yes, that’s it, really.”

They picked up their glasses and clinked. “To, oh, merriment,” said Don.

Kathy smiled. Perhaps there is an opening. “Yes, to merriment.”

“What’s your story?” Sarah asked as she put down her glass.

Kathy sighed. “Well, I’d planned on being here with a friend, but there’s been a crisis back home.” She signaled the waiter and finished her whiskey.

“Are you an actress?” Sarah probed.

“No.” Kathy tried for a neutral tone. “Do I look like someone you’ve seen?” She had modeled for men’s magazines but doubted that Sarah would be a purchaser. Maybe Don has admired some of my snaps?

“No, but you’re very beautiful. I thought you must be an actress or a model.”

Kathy wished she had something to drink at that moment. “You’re very direct.”

“I’m sorry.” Sarah looked to Don for support.

“You are beautiful, and you carry yourself very well.”

“I am a model. You’re right about that.”

“Do you enjoy it?” Sarah asked.

“I do. It pays well, too,” Kathy thought she’d add. “You said you’re in public relations. Are you continuing that in Dublin?”

“Yes. My company asks me to do occasional work for them in Europe. Things were hectic with the infringement lawsuits, but that appears to be settled.”

“Do you like that work?”

“I do. I’ve done it for a long time. It’s second nature.”

“And what is Don semi-retired from?”

“HR. I’m a career coach now.”

“Oh! Perhaps I could use your services.”

“My clients are in the corporate world. Entertainment is another ballgame. I’d have little value to offer you.”

“Oh, I think you sell yourself short.” Kathy flashed a beautiful smile at the grinning Don.

Sarah pasted a smile on her face. She is trolling for my husband right in front of me! I’m sure that ‘friend’ she spoke of is male and married, reined in by the wife.

The waiter arrived with another round of drinks. Don’s glass was half-full, but Sarah noted that the other two glasses were ready to be cleared. I must slow down. I won’t make this easy for her. “Where do you live in London?”

“Lambeth. Do you know London?”

“No. Do you know where that is, Don?” He shook his head.

 “It’s across the Thames from Westminster. My apartment has a wonderful view.”

“London is such an expensive city. You must pay a fortune in rent.” Sarah wondered who was really paying that rent.

“Yes, I suppose.” Kathy heard an accusatory tone in Sarah’s voice that she didn’t like. “Is it dearer than New York? I want to live in Manhattan, at least for a while. Have you ever lived there?”

“Don did before we met.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“No. It was an apprenticeship lasting a few months. I got only a stipend and lived in a hotel. There were four of us in the program, and we knew only one would be hired, so there wasn’t any bonding going on. Very little free time or money to play.”

“You got the job?”

“No. Like I said, not a good experience.”

“We lived in Chicago for eight years, but it was too big. I was happy to move to Hartford. That’s close enough to New York for me.”

“Where’s Hartford?”

“Connecticut. You know, the recent school shooting.”

A pall fell over the table as minds raced. Don’s persistent fear about having a child was that the life would end in tragedy and wondered how many of those parents had worried about what came true. Sarah’s god-daughter was in the Newtown School that day, and the nightmares hadn’t stopped since the news broke. Kathy wondered how a country as advanced as the US could be so obsessed with guns.

“Oh, I shouldn’t have said that.” Tears ran down Sarah’s face. “You’ll have to excuse me.” Don stood and helped Sarah up from her chair. Kathy saw the disparity in their heights. Her legs are really short. Her body is trim, though. She works out. She’s no pushover. “I’m going back to the room, Don. Are you coming?”

“I’ll finish my drink.” Sarah hurried away, and Don settled again in his chair. There was a trace of victory in the smile Kathy flashed at him.

“I’ll move over there, if you don’t mind,” Kathy said as she moved, expecting no objection. “I hate having my back to a room.” She pushed the chair closer to him and further from the table before settling into it. She crossed her legs for effect and noticed that Don noticed. I do enjoy the chase. “Thank you for staying. I really appreciate it.” She leaned forward to pat his arm and saw his focus dart to her breasts. Men are so reliable.

“Well, it is good whiskey, but you must let me buy the next round.”

“Oh, no. I won’t hear of it. I’m on expense account, so, please, allow me this pleasure. Now, let’s drink to peace on Earth.”

“To peace on Earth.” He saw that Kathy drank more than he did. Where is this leading? Surely she doesn’t think I’ll desert my wife over Christmas. He sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest.

“Did you know any of the victims?” Kathy asked, troubled by this gesture.

“Sarah’s god-daughter was at school that day and heard the shots and screams. We were terrified, of course. Sarah’s taken it very hard.”

“I can imagine. Such a tragedy. Will she be all right?”

“She’s a rock, really. Very strong.”

They sipped their drinks.

“What does a career coach do?”

“I talk to my client to find out what’s holding her back from success. I’ll do behavior and motivation analysis and some skills testing. Mostly, I listen.”

“How long does a session last?”

“An hour.”

“You do all that in one hour?”

“Oh, no, sorry. I’ll have a client for months. Years, sometimes.”

She flashed her smile. “I’m definitely interested. I’m sure you could help me.”

She is beautiful, but taking her on would only lead to trouble. “You strike me as being very successful.”

“Who doesn’t want to reach her full potential?” She was making headway, she could sense it.

“You need someone from entertainment. London must have hundreds of competent professionals.”

“You’re sure I can’t hire you?” She leaned toward him, again offering a view of her breasts. His eyes held hers.

“I don’t want to waste your money.”

“Oh, go ahead. Play hard to get.” Kathy drained her drink and pondered her next move. “You’re not keeping up.” She pointed to his glass.

“I’ll let you race ahead.”

She signaled the waiter again. Don waved and held up his index finger. The waiter nodded.

“Spoil sport.”

“I have this to finish and Sarah’s glass. I should be in my cups by then.”

“Well, I certainly hope so.” She waited for a response. When it didn’t come she asked how long they’d been married.

“Thirty-one years.”

“Go on. Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“Only marriage?

“For both of us.”

“Commendable.” Kathy pondered her quest. Surely this man has had other women in thirty-one years. It would be rare, though. Sarah wouldn’t put up with frequent humiliation.

The waiter approached with his tray. Don downed the rest of his drink, pushed the glass away, and picked up Sarah’s glass.

Kathy hoisted her glass his way. “To marriage.”

“To marriage.” They clinked and sipped. “And you? Ever been married?”

“Once. A disaster.”

“You must have a boyfriend.”

“Not at the moment.”

“Men must ask you out all the time.”

“Well, yes, but most have nothing to offer.” She turned on her full-wattage smile. “I like accomplished, older men. Have I mentioned that?”

“No.” Don paused. He was feeling the effects of the whiskey and remembered that his lapses had been fueled by alcohol. “I bet you’re a challenge to keep up with.”

“Oh, but I’m not. I’m happiest when I’m curled up in bed with my lover.”

She does have a beautiful smile. And those boobs! I’d love to know if they’re real. He smiled and sipped his drink.

She was encouraged by his smile. She leaned to him and put her hand on his thigh. “Penny for your thoughts.”