One Night (6 page)

“Head toward the U,” I said to the driver. “Stay east of the interstate.” He nodded.

Ms. Whittaker aimed and held a skeptical look. “No address?” she said.

I took a shot. “Fifth Street.” She faced front and checked her watch.

Simone and Prince Tom were debating skiing in Switzerland versus New Zealand. He tried to include me, but I’ve never been east of Boston or west of San Francisco. I sure had nothing to say about restaurants in Gstaad, and the conversation rolled on without me. I watched traffic and wondered about Next.

Tell him outright what I want?

Keep lying about who and what I am until I can get Kit to meet us somewhere?

I reached into my pocket for my cell, then remembered it was still with hotel security. There was a phone on the back of the driver’s seat. I asked, “May I make a call? I need to check in with my office and let them know what I’m up to.”

“No,” Prince Tom said in a tone that could command legions.

“This is a private excursion, Delivery Girl,” Simone said gently.

“It will stay that way,” I said. “I just wanted to check in.” But I sat back. No sense upsetting anyone.

“I don’t want this found out by the press,” he said. “I’m supposed to be a participant in a serious conference. If it gets out how I really spent my time, it could blow things apart.” He frowned. “But, Kelly, I guess maybe you should call, if you think you might get fired.”

“Not likely,” Simone murmured.

“Could happen,” I lied.

He looked worried. “Could you call but not really tell them anything?”

“No,” Simone said, stretching it into a two syllable word. Nuh-oh. “I don’t want the press tracking us down either, Prince Tom. Journalists can be useful, of course, but then”—she smiled at me—“so are pesticides.”

“Have you had your job long?” he asked me.

The way I figured it, talking about me would lead to one of two things: The lies would pile up or the truth would come out. Neither would help anything. I looked at the city streets gliding by. He waited. “Not long,” I said finally. “Six months.” Deflect, Kelly, deflect attention. “So tell me, Prince Tomas: Does your sister have a favorite Simone Sanchez song?” Might as well aim the spotlight where it was usually welcomed.

He folded his hands and nodded. “The Noel Coward thing.”

Simone was watching me and she laughed. “Your head file finally fails you, Delivery Girl; you’ve never heard of Noel Coward.”

I don’t like being laughed at. To get even, I said, “That’s a really old CD, of course; can you even remember the song, Simone? Can you still sing it?” My shot went wide; she wasn’t touched. Maybe she’d been thinking the same thing.

Simone turned and looked out the window for a moment, then nestled down into the leather seat. She hummed a bit, softly, closed her eyes, and sang. “I believe…”

As she sang, sinking deeper and deeper into the slow, wistful ballad, I watched Prince Tom watching her. His eyes widened, he held still. He was memorizing everything.

Simone held the final note until it faded into a soft breath. She opened her eyes and said, “My, that was good! I haven’t sung it in almost twenty years, and don’t you think that was good? I should do those songs again. Pam, don’t you think I should do all those songs again, just me and the piano, this time in the studio? Don’t you think?”

Ms. Whittaker nodded.

Prince Tom whispered, “Thank you, Simone.”

Then, oh my gosh, what a star move: She cupped his chin in her hand and pulled him over for a kiss.

I’ve seen a lot, of course, but this I could not bear to watch. I looked out the window. Just in time. “That’s it!” I shouted. “There’s the house!”

*

I’d never heard of Ida May Turnbull until I started researching for Kit. I wasn’t much of a reader as a kid, and certainly never would have picked up anything hinting “historical.” But I know now that this Turnbull, long dead, is one famous writer. Mostly because of the TV show based on the seven books in the Little Girl, Big River series. My grandmother didn’t allow TV, so I never saw the show when I was little. And even though
Little Girl Big River
is now one of those programs that’s running in syndication somewhere every hour of the day, I still haven’t seen it. Kit and I pretty much restrict TV to news and (if you must know) Hollywood biographies. Amazing, really, how many of those old-time stars had drug problems.

But evidently the Little Girl books themselves must be decent, because they drive so many people—women—nuts. Including, apparently, one very famous singing movie star.

Simone barely waited for the car to stop before she hopped out. “You’re sure this is the place?”

Hitching post, red roof, brick and stucco. It checked out. “There should be a small metal plaque by the front door. Can you see one?”

She marched up to the house, climbed the steps, approached the door, then swooned before catching herself on the porch railing.

I said to Prince Tom, “It’s the right house.”

Simone knocked on the door, waited, knocked again. She turned to us in the car and shrugged, then hustled down the steps and walked between bushes up to a window.

“Oh, hell,” said Ms. Whittaker, “she’s off on a good one.

We won’t be leaving here until she gets inside.” She got out of the car, leaned against the hitching post, and pulled a pack of Camels out of her jacket. In a flash the driver was at her side and they both lit up.

Simone was moving from window to window, peering inside and no doubt leaving nose prints on the glass. “You’ll tell your sister about this, I bet,” I said to Prince Tom.

“Yes. Who knew? Look at her, like a kid. Funny, really, what strange passions any of us have.”

Be bold, Kelly. The more you learn, the more ammo Kit will have when it’s her turn with him. Besides, he’s left a mile-wide opening. “What’s your passion, Your Highness?” Either he had to think too hard or didn’t want to say. Okay, then, soften the problem. “I mean, if you didn’t have to be the ruler of a troubled country, what would you rather be doing?”

He ran a hand through his hair and leaned back, dropping his head against the cushy car seat. “Maps. I’d like to be back at Oxford studying maps.”

Maps? He longed to cuddle up with maps? And they were counting on this guy to rule a country?

He must have seen something in my expression; he tensed. “It’s not that comical, Kelly. Maps have it all: the history, philosophy, science, even the religion of a time and place.”

“I don’t think it’s comical, Your Highness, I just—”

“Please don’t call me that.”

“What, then? You
are
a royal person.” Simone was back on the porch, knocking again. Loudly this time; we could hear the banging from the car.

“Prince Tomas—would you rather I call you that?”

He shook his head, then tipped it toward the house. “What she says: Prince Tom. I like that.”

“Okay, Prince Tom. I don’t think loving maps is comical. The answer was just so unexpected.”

He repeated it softly: “Unexpected.” An eyebrow arched. “All this is unexpected, wouldn’t you say?”

An understatement, of course. I nodded. “I was just delivering a book.”

“And I was returning to my room for a clean shirt.”

I peeled my eyes away from his face and glanced down. “Your shirt looks fine.” Sheer white, crisp, expensive, tailored perfectly over an obviously trim build.

He held the suit coat open wide, revealing a spot on the shirt. “Ketchup,” he said. He smiled. “Now you tell me, Kelly Ray: What’s your passion?”

Staying sober, I thought. I glanced away. “I don’t have one.”

“I bet you do.”

I didn’t suppose he’d like the idea of keeping company with a former addict, so it seemed to be time—again—for an alternate to the whole truth. “It used to be music, Prince Tom. Once upon a time I played the violin. I was very good, once, and I loved it. Did you know the Dakota City University has a famous map collection?”

During the time he silently looked at me, I swear his eye color shifted from brown to green to brown again. “You changed the subject” he said softly.

“I know I changed the subject. You’re the visitor in town and I wanted to know if you knew about the university collection.”

“How do
you
know about the collection?”

“That’s kind of insulting, Prince Tom. Do only map lovers know about map collections? I’ve lived here all my life. I hear things. I file them away.”

My hand hadn’t budged from my lap, but he sure looked as if I’d slapped him. “I didn’t mean to say anything insulting, Kelly. You just surprised me. Maps aren’t even on the radar for most people, so I’m always surprised when someone knows anything at all. I admit, though, I might not have perspective. You see, I don’t simply like looking at maps. I had hoped to spend my life with them. Studying maps, teaching maps, writing about maps. So, yes, I know about the collection here. Did you know that it holds one of the most valuable maps in the world?”

“No, I didn’t.”

He nodded. Leaned closer, then laughed.

“The joke, Prince Tom?”

“You, sort of. Watching you work, I guess. You filed that nugget of information away, didn’t you? Closed your eyes and put it somewhere in there.” He gently tapped my head twice before letting his finger rest for a moment on my hair.

I watched him pull back and secure his hands in a tight clasp. How long, I wondered, since he’d been free to touch a girl?

For that matter, how long since I’d touched a boy?

His eyes did the color thing again as he waited for my answer. So did his cheeks, actually. From pale to pink to pale again. I said, “I suppose I did file it.”

“I wonder what else is in there.”

“Lots of details, most of them useless. Hey, look at that.”

A small crowd had gathered on the sidewalk and was watching Simone prowl around the house. I glanced at her driver and bodyguard; they seemed unconcerned. More likely they were hoping that the unsolicited attention would end the excursion.

A woman moved toward Simone. She held out a pen and paper. As the pack followed the autograph seeker, Ms. Whittaker, finally inspired to run interference, got off her perch and strode toward her boss.

“Simone’s been discovered,” I said.

From the safety of the car we watched her sign autographs and talk to strangers. She said something to her assistant, and then Ms. Whittaker headed back to the car. She opened the door, reached in, and dug into a bag on the front seat for a moment before pulling out a disposable camera. “She wants pictures. You two, out. She wants you in them.”

The crowd was getting larger. Somehow word of the star’s presence in the neighborhood was spreading. “No,” Prince Tom said.

Ms. Whittaker swallowed and licked her lips. “She thought you’d say that. She said to tell you the photo will never be released, it’s for her private scrapbook.’’ She sighed heavily. “She’s so into scrapbooks. She also said to tell you, Please.” Prince Tom and I exchanged looks, shrugged, then got out of the car and walked to Simone, following Ms. Whittaker, who wedged a path through the giggling fans.

“…fabulous books,” Simone was saying. “I want you all to promise to buy them and read them. And she wrote the first one right here. Right here! There you are, you two. Pam, take our picture. Then Simone was gripping us both by the elbows and guiding us onto the porch. “Everybody, you would not believe it! This is—”

“Don’t, Simone,” I muttered. “The spotlight stays on you.” She looked at Prince Tom. He nodded and mouthed a word,
Please.
Today’s magic word.

“These are my friends Tom and Kelly. Give us a minute to snap a picture, then we’ll talk more.” After the shot was taken, they swarmed around her. Prince Tom and I were edged aside.

A tall gray-haired woman reached out and grabbed Simone by the hand. “I live next door,” she said. “The woman who owns this house just ran out to pick her daughter up at soccer. She’ll be right back. I’m sure she’d be happy to let you in and see the house.”

Simone swooned again.

“Oh, hell,” Ms. Whittaker said. “Now we’re really stuck.”

Prince Tom looked worried. He turned toward the car,
glancing up and down the street. “The press will be here any minute,” he said. “Surely someone’s called by now.”

“We can go,” I said.

He chewed on his lip. “I never should have done this.”

“We’ll leave and no one will know.”

He still wasn’t hearing me. Probably running through in his head all the international implications of being on the lam with a swooning movie star. I tried once more. “Let’s go see the maps,” I said. “The campus isn’t far. There’s a new special collections archive that’s supposed to be wonderful. Maybe they have your valuable map on display. We could be there in minutes.”

Now I had him. “Really?”

“But we’d better go quick, before word gets out.”

“I shouldn’t.”

“You shouldn’t be here, either, but you did that.”