Read Online The Bannerman Solution (The Bannerman Series) by John R. Maxim - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: John R. Maxim
Ads: Link
gorgeous kids who'd be in junior high about now.
He acknowledged Susan's presence with a small, shy smile of his own. She moved her lips in silent apology for having intruded, smiled once more, then moved off to join Allie Gregory who was writing a check for a pewter saltcellar. She did not return to the garage. This was their fourth stop arid it was almost time for lunch. Susan glanced back up as they walked to Allie's car. He was t looking back at her, watching her go.
The next day, Sunday, Allie and Susan decided to look in on a start-of-season sale at a ski shop called Sun dance on Westport's Post Road. Susan was in the market for a new pair of skis, her four-year-old Rossignols being too short for her now, but she ended up concluding that she'd do as well in New York without having to lug them in on the train. They wandered into the other room Where ski clothing was displayed. The same man was there. The same faded blue jeans and well-worn deck shoes. The day being cooler, he wore an Irish-knit sweater with a hole at one elbow. He was trying on ski parkas. Still no sign of a wife or girlfriend. No gold band on his finger. No rings at all.
She nudged Allie Gregory. “That man was at one of the garage sales yesterday.”
“What man?”
“The good-looking one just putting on that orange jacket. Do you know him?”
“I think I've seen him around.”
“Orange isn't his color.”
“Oops. He's looking.”
“Rats,” Susan whispered. “This is the second time he's caught me staring at him.”
“So? Just go say hello. This is Westport, not New York.”
“I can't just . . . what'll I say to him?”
“Tell him orange isn't his color.”
Twenty minutes and five ski jackets later, Susan and} Allie decided that a red Austrian-made parka would be just about perfect for him. It had wide khaki trim across the shoulders and lots of zippered pockets. Very hand some. Made him look rugged. The khaki went with his thick, curly hair. A Navy outfit might have brought out those marvelous eyes a little better but she was already getting tired of him in blue.
The man, though he'd never actually been given a vote in the matter, seemed equally pleased and grateful for the help. The fact is, he admitted, the only decent- looking things he owned were bought at the urging of one female friend or another. He was not much of a shopper.
“I take it you're not married,” Allie said brightly.
“No. I'm not.” That shy smile again.
“Where do you ski?” Susan rushed to ask, horrified that Allie was about to swing into a series of embarrass ingly unsubtle questions meant to determine whether he was divorced, widowed or gay.
“Europe mostly. How about yourself?” \
“Just here in the East. But someday Europe. It's one of my dreams.”
“Well, if you decide to go, I'll be glad to recommend a few places.”
“That sounds as if you've been to them all.”
A modest shrug. “I travel quite a bit. The fact is, I run a travel agency here in Westport.”
“Susan loves to travel,” Allie Gregory beamed. “Why don't you take her address and put her on your mailing list?”
Susan struggled not to roll back her eyes.
He saw her discomfort. “To be honest, I've been trying to think of a way to learn more about you. I'm Paul Bannerman, by the way.”
“Susan Lesko.” She held out her hand and, out of habit, watched his face for any sign of recognition.
All through her teens and into her twenties, the name, her father's name, had often been in the news. Years of crime stories on page three of the Post and the Daily News. But it was a feature article in a Sunday magazine section, entitled “New York's Toughest Cops,” that made him something of a celebrity and even led to an occasional mention in the nightlife col umns. After that, it seemed as if every other person she'd meet would ask “Are you by any
He acknowledged Susan's presence with a small, shy smile of his own. She moved her lips in silent apology for having intruded, smiled once more, then moved off to join Allie Gregory who was writing a check for a pewter saltcellar. She did not return to the garage. This was their fourth stop arid it was almost time for lunch. Susan glanced back up as they walked to Allie's car. He was t looking back at her, watching her go.
The next day, Sunday, Allie and Susan decided to look in on a start-of-season sale at a ski shop called Sun dance on Westport's Post Road. Susan was in the market for a new pair of skis, her four-year-old Rossignols being too short for her now, but she ended up concluding that she'd do as well in New York without having to lug them in on the train. They wandered into the other room Where ski clothing was displayed. The same man was there. The same faded blue jeans and well-worn deck shoes. The day being cooler, he wore an Irish-knit sweater with a hole at one elbow. He was trying on ski parkas. Still no sign of a wife or girlfriend. No gold band on his finger. No rings at all.
She nudged Allie Gregory. “That man was at one of the garage sales yesterday.”
“What man?”
“The good-looking one just putting on that orange jacket. Do you know him?”
“I think I've seen him around.”
“Orange isn't his color.”
“Oops. He's looking.”
“Rats,” Susan whispered. “This is the second time he's caught me staring at him.”
“So? Just go say hello. This is Westport, not New York.”
“I can't just . . . what'll I say to him?”
“Tell him orange isn't his color.”
Twenty minutes and five ski jackets later, Susan and} Allie decided that a red Austrian-made parka would be just about perfect for him. It had wide khaki trim across the shoulders and lots of zippered pockets. Very hand some. Made him look rugged. The khaki went with his thick, curly hair. A Navy outfit might have brought out those marvelous eyes a little better but she was already getting tired of him in blue.
The man, though he'd never actually been given a vote in the matter, seemed equally pleased and grateful for the help. The fact is, he admitted, the only decent- looking things he owned were bought at the urging of one female friend or another. He was not much of a shopper.
“I take it you're not married,” Allie said brightly.
“No. I'm not.” That shy smile again.
“Where do you ski?” Susan rushed to ask, horrified that Allie was about to swing into a series of embarrass ingly unsubtle questions meant to determine whether he was divorced, widowed or gay.
“Europe mostly. How about yourself?” \
“Just here in the East. But someday Europe. It's one of my dreams.”
“Well, if you decide to go, I'll be glad to recommend a few places.”
“That sounds as if you've been to them all.”
A modest shrug. “I travel quite a bit. The fact is, I run a travel agency here in Westport.”
“Susan loves to travel,” Allie Gregory beamed. “Why don't you take her address and put her on your mailing list?”
Susan struggled not to roll back her eyes.
He saw her discomfort. “To be honest, I've been trying to think of a way to learn more about you. I'm Paul Bannerman, by the way.”
“Susan Lesko.” She held out her hand and, out of habit, watched his face for any sign of recognition.
All through her teens and into her twenties, the name, her father's name, had often been in the news. Years of crime stories on page three of the Post and the Daily News. But it was a feature article in a Sunday magazine section, entitled “New York's Toughest Cops,” that made him something of a celebrity and even led to an occasional mention in the nightlife col umns. After that, it seemed as if every other person she'd meet would ask “Are you by any
Similar Books
