“The lovely little fish,” stated Simon to himself as he sat in the ergonomic comfort of his Volvo C70, “has taken the bait.”
As a man who planned things perfectly, his selection of the C70 was no more haphazard than his approach to Emma. Simon’s first car had been the famous Volvo 1800E. Hence, his purchase of the C70 was inevitable. His appreciation of fine automobiles was longstanding, especially those of distinctive style, legendary heritage, peak performance, or unparalleled safety. The C70 was all of the above.
He owned other vehicles as well, some of them nondescript and purely functional, placed strategically around the world. He also held title to several vintage classics, including a 1933 Hirondel, a Bugatti ’41 Royale, and one of the last known Furilacs in existence.
Dr. Emma Russell, however, had no passion for fine cars. She bought her VW Bug because it was inexpensive and got her where she was going.
The little Volkswagen pulled up to her apartment. Emma exited and, lost in her own thoughts, walked to the entrance. She stopped, fished in her briefcase for a notepad, and began furiously jotting.
Drops of standard-issue U.K. rain began to fall, but Emma continued to scribble. The drops became a light shower. Having completed her sudden burst of note-jotting, Emma turned her open mouth to the sky and allowed nature to fill it with water.
Simon, watching, sighed.
Dusk dropped its backcloth behind Emma’s apartment. Inside, she studied the young man’s journal. Dr. Russell was fascinated by the drawings, the poems, the mind.
She searched for an indication of his identity, but there was no name, no address.
The following afternoon, beside the Thames, Emma sat at her usual table at the Trout Inn. The river view did not captivate her; ’twas the journal that held her enthralled.
Templar, of course, was there as well. Positioned where he would not immediately be noticed, he studiously avoided looking in her direction.
When Emma saw Simon, she snapped the notebook shut. Convinced that he had not seen her, she debated returning it. She opened it again and found something that caught her attention — a poem.
As poems go, it was not publishable material. Publication was not Templar’s intention. It was verse aimed at the fragile, vulnerable heart of Dr. Emma Russell.
“And, when the showers of pure light dance in her clear eyes...” it began, and continued on its way to an awkward but well-intentioned conclusion.
Simon, choosing the moment, picked up his plate and approached her, reciting the poem aloud as he walked.
“We, purified by our kisses,” he concluded romantically, “are eternally healed.”
Emma, a bit flustered and curious about the impurity afflicting the poem’s kissers, told him it was beautiful and should be funded by National Health.
“Are you following me, or is it destiny?” asked Simon. “Either way, it’s weird.”
“Weird as in ‘fate,’ or weird as in plain old weird?” Emma made space for him to sit, pushing his journal into the corner.
“Destiny. Pass the salt.”
She complied and began the conversation.
“I can’t believe I ran into you again. I can go weeks and weeks and never run into my friends.”
Simon gave her a doubtful look.
“Well, I have two friends. Actually, one,” confessed Emma. “I guess she’s a friend — she knows who I am.”
“A lucky woman,” commented Simon.
Emma realized that the young man and she had never introduced themselves.
“My name is Emma, Emma Russell.” She offered an exceptionally attractive hand.
“Thomas More.”
“After the saint?”
“Sounds like a book title. Yes, Thomas More died for his faith. You know him?”
Emma hedged. She didn’t want to offend her new acquaintance’s religious sentiments.
“Not personally, I’m not that old. I’ve heard of him, though,” remarked Emma in half jest. “As a kid I was bullied by nuns.”
Simon’s face involuntarily flushed, stinging as if Father Brennan had slapped it only moments ago.
“The nuns I knew were kind, thankfully,” he honestly responded, “but Father Brennan...”
He stopped himself, disbelieving his own hears. He had not uttered one word about his experience at St. Ignatius since he was thirteen years old. Why now? Why here? In the middle of what should be a smooth, simple, well-rehearsed deception, truth was an unwelcome intruder.
Sensing discomfort, Emma changed the topic by pulling three or four cards out of her clothing. Templar recognized them as the cards she previously extracted from her crowded brassiere.
“Crib sheets for the Rosary?”
“No, silly, it’s something I’m working on. A formula for creating energy.”
“Try eating chocolate and drinking coffee,” suggested Simon helpfully.
“Not that kind of energy. Are you teasing me?”
He nodded in playful affirmation.
“Are you a student, then, Emma?”
“I was a student, once, Thomas,” answered Dr. Russell. “I am a research scientist.”
Templar had palmed two of her cards. He laid them out with a slight flourish.
“Hey, how did you do that?”
“Magic.”
Emma laughed, but disappearing cards were no joke.
“Give them back, please.”
He passed them to her, along with his warm, wonderful smile.
“I just wanted to watch you put them away again. What else do you keep in there?”
“Nothing anyone has been particularly interested in,” said Emma honestly.
“You know that’s not true.”
The moment was saved from embarrassment by the welcome intrusion of the Trout Inn’s waiter.
“May I get you anything else?”
“The Latour ’57,” answered the romantic poet.
The waiter cleared his throat.
“The Latour ’57, sir, is four hundred pounds.”
“Per bottle or per glass,” asked Templar without smiling.
“Bottle.”
“Good price! We’ll take two,” he enthused and pulled a handful of crumpled bills out of his coat pocket.
The waiter ambled off to fill the order, and Templar turned to Emma with a slight shrug.
She shook her head in amused disbelief.
“Perhaps I should have ordered the Latour ’58?”
Emma laughed.
“No, I’m sure the ’57 is best, but you’d better be very thirsty.”
He realized he should have consulted her before ordering.
“You don’t...”
“Drink? No. Not often. Hardly ever, actually.” Her cheeks flushed with self-consciousness. She didn’t enjoy discussing her medical problems. “I take medication for... for my heart, to tell the truth. As a chemist, I am quite familiar with drug interaction precaution number 101. Inderol and alcohol don’t really mix. Besides, Allah forbids it.”
Templar, alias Thomas More, apologized.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were Moslem. I wouldn’t have offered—”
Emma laughed sweetly and touched his hand, held his hand.
“I’m not really Moslem, although I could be. I know as much Koran as Catechism. My father was an orientalist much along the lines of E. G. Brown of Cambridge. You’ve heard of—”
“Cambridge? Of course,” replied Simon with charm.
“No, I meant Edward Granville Brown, author of A Year Amongst the Persians.” Emma was trying not to giggle, and succeeded by her next sentence.
“Anyway, my father and I were very close. He died — his heart — actually, he was struck by a car, but the heart attack killed him, although I blame the drunk behind the wheel. I was in my teens when it happened. I don’t know if you have ever lost anyone close to you...”
Simon thought of Agnes reaching for him, falling...