That Summer In Maine. Muriel Jensen

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      Chapter Two

      “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.

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