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Authors: Pamela Binnings Ewen
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to Peter. Suddenly she couldn’t wait to leave. Four days alone in Positano. She would confide in Peter there, and together, perhaps they could work this out. After all, help could always be hired.
Picturing the terraced buildings on the sides of the steep cliffs rising from the Tyrrhenian Sea, she let her thoughts flow to the ancient quiet village in Italy that for a few days would be a refuge. At a distance, from a boat in the water looking back, the town had a dreamy Moorish look, the buildings and houses all built close together and rectangular, all washed in white almost blinding in the sun, one atop the other. Then, at dusk, when colors deepen when the sun goes down, the vertical village turning amber, almost golden, like a scene on a Paul Gauguin canvas.
She slipped her hand into Peter’s. He looked at her and smiled.
“Your table’s ready, Mr. Peter.” The voice came from behind them. They both turned. The elderly waiter stood a few feet away.
“Thank you,” Peter said, standing. He placed his hand on the small of her back as they followed the waiter to a table.
The waiter brought white bibs and they ate barbecued shrimp, peeling back the shells and dipping the shrimp into the spicy buttery sauce while they planned the trip. As they ate and laughed and talked, waves of emotion swept through her, laughter and happiness and anticipation, warring with a clandestine feeling of despair and creeping desperation. But, she concealed that part from Peter. The only thing that she was certain of from moment to moment right now, she realized, was that she could not imagine living the remainder of her life without Peter at her side.
Oh how she loved him. She would have to have the child, because she could not lose him.
She could not.
9
The next morning, Wednesday, Rebecca took an early phone call with Warren Williams, chief financial officer of Roberts Engineering, the new client that she’d brought on board. They were discussing his idea of investing in a gold mine in Nevada. Rose Marie stuck her head in and signaled that the New York people were here from the magazine. Rebecca nodded and held up one finger, listening. A moment later she hung up the phone and turned back to Rose Marie. “They’re already here?”
“Yes.”
“They’re a little early.” Rebecca stood and smoothed her skirt. “Do I look all right?”
“You look fine. Great, actually.” Rose Marie headed for the door. “They’re upstairs in reception. I’ll go get them.”
A few minutes later Rose Marie guided two men through her office door. Both were dressed for cold weather. She stood and the first one, the smaller of the two, stuck out his hand and introduced himself as Tom Marfrey. She said she was glad to meet him and shook his hand, looking over his shoulder at the man trailing behind him carrying a light on a tall stand.
Tom Marfrey turned and said, “This is Arthur Timmons, our camera.”
“Art,” the cameraman said, giving her a nod. She watched as he stepped into the office, sweeping his eyes over the angles and corners, the shadows and light with a purposeful look. Turning back to Tom, she caught him inspecting her. She supposed she’d passed his test because he began to shed the heavy coat. “We’ll set up and get a few shots before we do the interview,” he said.
She took Tom’s coat and put it in the closet near the door.
Closing the door and turning around, she bumped into Art. “Excuse me,” he said, pushing past her with the light. She stepped aside to give him room. He set down the light, then tossed his own coat over the chair in front of her desk, and then went back out into the hallway.
She walked to her desk and sat on the edge to get out of the way, bracing her hands behind her. “Just tell me what you need.”
Rose Marie appeared in the doorway. “Just watching,” she said when Rebecca glanced her way.
Tom stood in the middle of the room, hands on his hips, turning, studying the area.
Picturing the terraced buildings on the sides of the steep cliffs rising from the Tyrrhenian Sea, she let her thoughts flow to the ancient quiet village in Italy that for a few days would be a refuge. At a distance, from a boat in the water looking back, the town had a dreamy Moorish look, the buildings and houses all built close together and rectangular, all washed in white almost blinding in the sun, one atop the other. Then, at dusk, when colors deepen when the sun goes down, the vertical village turning amber, almost golden, like a scene on a Paul Gauguin canvas.
She slipped her hand into Peter’s. He looked at her and smiled.
“Your table’s ready, Mr. Peter.” The voice came from behind them. They both turned. The elderly waiter stood a few feet away.
“Thank you,” Peter said, standing. He placed his hand on the small of her back as they followed the waiter to a table.
The waiter brought white bibs and they ate barbecued shrimp, peeling back the shells and dipping the shrimp into the spicy buttery sauce while they planned the trip. As they ate and laughed and talked, waves of emotion swept through her, laughter and happiness and anticipation, warring with a clandestine feeling of despair and creeping desperation. But, she concealed that part from Peter. The only thing that she was certain of from moment to moment right now, she realized, was that she could not imagine living the remainder of her life without Peter at her side.
Oh how she loved him. She would have to have the child, because she could not lose him.
She could not.
9
The next morning, Wednesday, Rebecca took an early phone call with Warren Williams, chief financial officer of Roberts Engineering, the new client that she’d brought on board. They were discussing his idea of investing in a gold mine in Nevada. Rose Marie stuck her head in and signaled that the New York people were here from the magazine. Rebecca nodded and held up one finger, listening. A moment later she hung up the phone and turned back to Rose Marie. “They’re already here?”
“Yes.”
“They’re a little early.” Rebecca stood and smoothed her skirt. “Do I look all right?”
“You look fine. Great, actually.” Rose Marie headed for the door. “They’re upstairs in reception. I’ll go get them.”
A few minutes later Rose Marie guided two men through her office door. Both were dressed for cold weather. She stood and the first one, the smaller of the two, stuck out his hand and introduced himself as Tom Marfrey. She said she was glad to meet him and shook his hand, looking over his shoulder at the man trailing behind him carrying a light on a tall stand.
Tom Marfrey turned and said, “This is Arthur Timmons, our camera.”
“Art,” the cameraman said, giving her a nod. She watched as he stepped into the office, sweeping his eyes over the angles and corners, the shadows and light with a purposeful look. Turning back to Tom, she caught him inspecting her. She supposed she’d passed his test because he began to shed the heavy coat. “We’ll set up and get a few shots before we do the interview,” he said.
She took Tom’s coat and put it in the closet near the door.
Closing the door and turning around, she bumped into Art. “Excuse me,” he said, pushing past her with the light. She stepped aside to give him room. He set down the light, then tossed his own coat over the chair in front of her desk, and then went back out into the hallway.
She walked to her desk and sat on the edge to get out of the way, bracing her hands behind her. “Just tell me what you need.”
Rose Marie appeared in the doorway. “Just watching,” she said when Rebecca glanced her way.
Tom stood in the middle of the room, hands on his hips, turning, studying the area.
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