"Indeed? What will it be next week? Keeping God with us on the campus? Finding Him through a haze of marijuana smoke like we used to do?"
Babs's jaw dropped. "Why Ian!" she exclaimed. "You never did, did you?"
"It's all right," Sarah laughed. "He didn't inhale either."
Her friend read the sign correctly and kept the conversation on safe ground, from then on, until Sarah announced that it was time to go.
"Mum," Jazz called from the back seat as they pulled out of the Walkers' driveway.
She knew what was coming. "Okay," she answered. "Since you said you were sorry, we'll go to the lake. We'll need to go back to the house first, though. We're all still in our church clothes, and Seonaid needs changing."
They were almost home when she saw him, driving towards her in his Camaro. She had teased him about it, asking if he had a Burt Reynolds fixation, but he had pointed out that he had trouble fitting into a Porsche. He did not slow down, nor did he seem to notice her, until the cars had almost reached each other. Then a broad easy smile crossed his face; as they passed he took his left hand from the wheel and waved. She thought that she caught a flash of something white on his thumb.
"That was the man who picked you up yesterday, wasn't it?" said Mark.
"The man who was going to fly you to the cabin."
"That's right. He's Mr. Neidholm; an old college friend and a very famous footballer "Rangers," Jazz announced.
"No," said Mark, severely. "American. He's too big to be one of our foot ballers."
Sarah smiled and wondered whether Ron would take that as a compliment.
Then she wondered why he had been there, and, if he had called to see her, why he had driven away.
One more turn and they had reached the Grace mansion. She slid the Jaguar into the long driveway, and, on impulse, stopped at her mailbox.
She stepped out of the car and swung it open. There was a white envelope inside. She took it out, slipped it into the pocket of her jacket, and got back into the car.
"Okay, boys," she exclaimed as she cancelled the alarm and let them into the house. "Lakeside clothes, please. Shorts, shirts and sandals. I'll take care of us girls and see you down here in ten minutes."
She carried Seonaid upstairs into her own bedroom and laid her on the bed, then took the envelope from her pocket and ripped it open. It contained a single white A4 sheet, a printed letter.
She whispered the words as she read it.
My darling Sarah
I'm not going to be a fool again. You mean more to me than all the Superbowl rings in the world, and all the nonsense that goes with them.
This is my pledge. If you will have me, I will finish with the game, in every aspect, here and now. I will practice law, as you practice your pathology, until it's time for us to sail off into the sunset together.
I love you. Will you marry me?
She looked at the signature. "Ron." It was scrawled, roughly, in a colour unlike any ink she had ever seen. She knew what it was, all right; she'd have known even without seeing the white flash of surgical tape on his left thumb.
"Oh damn," she whispered, feeling her knees go weak as a sudden wave of panic surged through her. "Sarah, it's choosing time."
Twenty-five
Of all the excellent restaurants in which she ate regularly, Alex had to admit that the Roseberry was her favourite. It was an emotional as much as a culinary thing. She had studied in Glasgow. Her professional life had begun in Edinburgh and had then taken her to London, for a period yet to be determined. For all that, there was something about the bay-windowed bistro on Gullane's main street that reminded her where her home really was.
She still owned her flat in Leith, although it was rented to a Curie, Anthony and Jarvis colleague during her London secondment. There, she had been found a very pleasant apartment in bustling Spitalfields. Yet she knew within herself that one day she would return to the village in which she had been raised. She even knew the house that she would like to buy, should the opportunity arise.
"Will you be selecting the wine tonight, Mr. Skinner?" asked Ronald, the Roseberry's front-of-house partner.
"Not a chance," Alex answered him cheerfully. "I will, and we'll have a bottle of that nice Chablis, thanks." She looked at her father as the waiter headed off towards the kitchen. "You'd better not have anything too heavy tonight, if you're having your big medical tomorrow.
Did you get it set up?"
"Yup. I called a cardiologist Sarah knows and told him the story. He and another consultant are going to give me a total going-over at the Murrayfield Hospital at five tomorrow evening. I've told Mitch what I'm doing; he agrees it's sensible. We'd probably have had to do it anyway, if the committee's doctors had refused to examine me."
"How do the family solicitors feel about you using our firm for this one?"
"I haven't even told them; it's none of their business. If your firm had a private client department, I'd probably be on its books by now, given your connection. You don't, but this is a litigation matter.
It's like golf. Who would you choose to hole a ten-foot putt to save your life?"
"Not you," Alex laughed, 'that's for sure."
"Right. You'd go for Tiger Woods. In a sense my life's at stake, but the game here is litigation. So by the same token, I'm going for Mitchell Laidlaw."
"Then you'll win. You're The Man, Mitch," she exclaimed, gallery-style, then paused. "But Pops, just suppose the consultants find an underlying abnormality. Suppose they decide they can't pass you fit to go back to work. What would you do?"
"That's not going to happen."
"Answer the question."
Bob looked down at the menu on the table, as if he was studying it. "I don't know," he murmured. "I've never contemplated retirement; I've never imagined a life outside the police. I've got a professional future that's mapped out for, oh, the next fifteen years anyway, and I've never given any thought to the idea of it being taken away."
"Come on, Pops. You must plan on living beyond sixty-five. What will you do then?"
He looked up and shrugged. "I dunno. Maybe I'll write. Maybe I'll just join the seniors' section and play golf every day, till eventually they carry me off the course." He frowned. "Or maybe… and this is something that has floated through my mind on occasion… I could find a visiting chair in criminology at some university or other."
"Pops, you could do that now, without any difficulty, in Britain, and probably in the States as well. And maybe, just maybe, you understand, you should think about it. You've given more to the police service in little over half a career than almost any other man has in a whole lifetime. But it's taken you over. Nothing and no one gets in its way, not even your marriage. I want to see you fulfilled and happy as you grow older, not lonely, bitter and driven."
"You're telling me to chuck it too?"
"No, I'm telling you to be broad minded enough to embrace the possibility."
"Alex, I've got things to do yet."
"Like being chief constable, you mean? Pops, you couldn't sit in Uncle Jimmy's chair for more than six months, and you know it."
"Yes, I do, but there are other things, other avenues."
"You mean like the Inspectorate?"
"Maybe."
"I don't know if I can imagine you as Her Majesty's Inspector of Constabulary."
"Fortunately, my darling, you're not the Queen." He laughed. "Not yet, at any rate."
He made to go on, but Ronald arrived with a bottle of Chablis; he opened it and poured a little for Bob to taste. He nodded, and the waiter filled both glasses. "Ready to order?" he asked.
"Another five minutes?"
"Sure."
"What were you going to say?" Alex asked, as he left.
"That I'll make you a deal. I'll retire in twelve years, maximum; sooner if I feel that I'm burned out. And I will think more about the university idea, I promise. But first, I have to get through this medical and I have to crush these bastards who are trying to get me out of my job. Now let's eat."