26
SEBASTIAN STOOD ON the other side of the road clutching a large bunch of red roses. He stared at the front door of a small, single-story redbrick house. In front, a little square of grass that could have been cut with scissors, was surrounded by begonias. A swept path led up to a recently painted front door with a brass knocker that shone in the late morning sun. So neat, so tidy, and so Samantha.
Why was he fearless whenever he took on Adrian Sloane, or crossed swords with someone over a million-pound deal, when knocking on what might not even prove to be Sam’s front door filled him with apprehension? He took a deep breath, crossed the road, walked slowly up the path, and knocked tentatively on the door. When it opened, his immediate reaction was to turn and run. It had to be Sam’s husband.
“Can I help you?” the man asked, eyeing the roses suspiciously.
“Is Samantha in?” Seb asked, wondering if suspicion would quickly turn to anger.
“She hasn’t lived here for over a year.”
“Do you know where she’s moved?”
“No idea. Sorry.”
“But she must have left a forwarding address,” said Seb desperately.
“The Smithsonian,” the man replied, “that’s where she works.”
“Thanks,” said Seb, but the door had already closed.
This encounter made him feel a little bolder, and he quickly returned to the street and hailed the first passing cab. During the journey to the Smithsonian, he must have repeated to himself a dozen times, stop being so feeble and just get on with it. The worst she can do is …
When he got out of the cab, he found himself standing in front of a very different door: a massive glass panel that never seemed to remain closed for more than a few seconds at a time. He marched into the entrance hall. Three young women in smart blue uniforms were standing behind a reception desk, dealing with visitors’ queries.
Seb approached one of them, who smiled when she saw the roses. “Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Samantha Sullivan.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know that name, but then I only started last week,” she said, turning to a colleague who had just come off the phone.
“Samantha Sullivan?” she repeated. “You’ve just missed her. She left to pick up her daughter from school. She’ll be back at ten tomorrow.”
Daughter, daughter, daughter. The word rang in Seb’s ears like a discharged bullet. If only he’d known, he wouldn’t—
“Would you like to leave a message for her?”
“No, thank you,” he said, as he turned and headed back toward the door.
“You might still catch her at Jefferson Elementary,” said the voice behind him. “They don’t come out until four.”
“Thank you,” repeated Seb, as he pushed his way through the door, but he didn’t look back. He walked out of the building and went in search of another cab. One immediately drew up by his side. He climbed in and was about to say Union Station, but the words came out as “Jefferson Elementary School.”
The driver eased out into the afternoon traffic and tucked in behind a long line of cars.
“I’ll double whatever’s on the meter if you get me there before four.”
The driver switched lanes, ran the next light, and shot through gaps so tight that Seb had to close his eyes. They drew up outside a massive neo-Georgian brick building with four minutes to spare. Seb looked at the meter and handed the driver a ten-dollar bill. He got out of the cab and quickly disappeared behind several little pockets of chatting mothers waiting for their offspring to appear. Shielded by a tree, he checked out the mums one by one, searching for a face he recognized. But he didn’t see her.
At four o’clock, a bell rang and the doors opened to disgorge a gaggle of noisy young girls dressed in white shirts, crimson blazers, and gray pleated skirts, with school bags swinging by their sides. They ran down the steps and straight to their mothers, as if attracted by magnetism.
Sam looked carefully at the girls. They must have been around five, but how could that be possible when Sam had been in England less than six years ago? And then he saw his little sister charging down the steps. The same mop of wavy black hair, the same dark eyes, the same smile that he could never forget. He wanted to run to her and take her in his arms, but he remained frozen to the spot. She suddenly smiled in recognition, changed direction, and ran toward her mother.
Seb stared at the woman who, when he’d first met her, had struck him dumb. Once again he wanted to cry out, but once again he didn’t. He just stood and watched as the two of them climbed into a car and, like the other mothers and children, set off on their journey home. A moment later they were gone.
Seb stood there dazed. Why hadn’t she told him? He’d never felt sadder or happier in his life. He must win both their hearts, because he would sacrifice anything, everything, to be with them.
The crowd dispersed as the last few children were reunited with their mothers, until finally Seb was left standing on his own, still clutching the bunch of red roses. He crossed another road and entered another door in the hope of finding someone who could tell him where they lived.
He walked down a long corridor, past classrooms on either side that were decorated with pupils’ drawings and paintings. Just before he reached a door on which a sign announced Dr. Rosemary Wolfe, Headmistress, he stopped to admire a child’s painting of her mother. It could have been painted by Jessica twenty years ago. The same confident brushwork, the same originality. It was no different this time. Her work was in a different class from anything else on display. He recalled walking down another corridor when he was ten years old, experiencing exactly the same emotion—admiration, and a desire to know the artist.
“Can I help you?” said a stern-sounding voice.
Seb swung around to see a tall, smartly dressed woman bearing down on him. She reminded him of his aunt Grace.
“I was just admiring the paintings,” he said, somewhat feebly, hoping his exaggerated English accent would throw her off guard. Although she didn’t look like the kind of woman who was easily thrown off guard.
“And this one,” Seb added, pointing to My Mom, “is exceptional.”
“I agree,” she said, “but then Jessica has a rare talent … are you feeling all right?” she asked as Seb’s cheeks drained of their color and he staggered forward, quickly steadying himself against the wall.
“I’m fine, just fine,” he said, recovering his composure. “Jessica, you say?”
“Yes, Jessica Brewer. She’s the most accomplished artist we’ve seen at Jefferson Elementary since I’ve been headmistress, and she doesn’t even realize how talented she is.”
“How like Jessica.”
“Are you a friend of the family?”
“No, I knew her mother when she studied in England.”
“If you tell me your name, I’ll let her know you—”
“I’d rather not, headmistress, but I do have an unusual request.” The stern look reappeared. “I’d like to buy this picture and take it back to England, to remind me of both the mother and her daughter.”
“I’m sorry, but it’s not for sale,” said Dr. Wolfe, firmly. “But I’m sure if you were to speak to Mrs. Brewer—”
“That’s not possible,” said Seb as he bowed his head.
The headmistress’s expression softened and she took a closer look at the stranger.
“I’d better be going,” said Seb, “or I’ll miss my train.” He wanted to run, but his legs were so weak he could hardly move. When he looked up to say goodbye, the headmistress was still staring at him.
“You’re Jessica’s father.”
Seb nodded as the tears welled up uncontrollably. Dr. Wolfe walked across, removed the picture from the wall, and handed it to the stranger.
“Please don’t let them know I was here,” he begged. “It will be better that way.”
“I won’t say a word,” said Dr. Wolfe, offering him her hand.
Cedric Hardcastle would have been able to do business with this woman; someone who didn’t need to sign a contract to keep her word.
“Thank you,” said Seb, handing her the flowers.
He left quickly, clutching the painting under his arm. Once he was outside, he walked and walked. How stupid he’d been to lose her. Doubly stupid. Like the bad cowboy in a B movie, he knew he had to get out of town, and get out fast. Only the sheriff could know he’d ever been there.
“Union Station,” he said as he climbed into the back of another cab. He couldn’t stop staring at My Mom, and would have missed the neon sign if he hadn’t happened to look up for a moment.
“Stop!” he shouted. The cab drew into the kerb.
“I thought you said Union Station. That’s another ten blocks.”
“Sorry, I changed my mind.” He paid the driver, stepped out onto the pavement, and stared up at the sign. This time he didn’t hesitate to walk into the building and straight up to the counter, praying that his hunch was right.
“Which department do you want, sir?” asked the woman standing there.
“I want to buy a photograph of a wedding that I’m sure your paper would have covered.”
“The photographic department is on the second floor,” she said, pointing toward a staircase, “but you’d better hurry. They’ll be closing in a few minutes.”
Seb bounded up the stairs three at a time and charged through some swing doors with PHOTOS stenciled on the beveled glass. On this occasion, it was a young man looking at his watch who was standing behind a counter. Seb didn’t wait for him to speak.
“Did your paper cover the Brewer and Sullivan wedding?”
“Doesn’t ring a bell, but I’ll check.”
Seb paced back and forth in front of the counter, hoping, willing, praying. At last the young man reappeared carrying a thick folder.
“Seems we did,” he said, dumping the folder on the counter.
Seb opened the buff cover to reveal dozens of photographs and several press cuttings recording the happy occasion: the bride and groom, Jessica, parents, bridesmaids, friends, even a bishop, at a wedding at which he should have been the groom.
“If you’d like to choose a particular photo,” said the young man, “they’re five dollars each, and you can pick them up in a couple of days.”
“What if I wanted to buy every picture in the file. How much would that cost?”
The young man slowly counted them. “Two hundred and ten dollars,” he said eventually.
Seb took out his wallet, removed three hundred-dollar bills and placed them on the counter. “I want to take this file away now.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible, sir. But as I said, if you come back in a couple of days…”
Seb extracted another hundred-dollar bill, and saw the look of desperation on the young man’s face. He knew the deal was all but closed. It was only a matter of how much.
“But I’m not allowed…” he whispered.
Before he could finish his sentence Seb placed another hundred-dollar bill on top of the other four. The young man glanced around to see that most of his colleagues were preparing to leave. He quickly gathered up the five bills, stuffed them in a pocket, and gave Seb a weak smile.
Seb grabbed the file, left the photo department, walked quickly back down the stairs, through the swing doors, and out of the building. He felt like a shoplifter, and continued running until he was sure he had escaped. At last he slowed down, caught his breath, and began to follow the signs to Union Station, the painting tucked under one arm, the folder under the other. He bought a ticket on the Amtrak express to New York, and a few minutes later climbed aboard the waiting train.
Sebastian didn’t open the folder until the train pulled out of the station. By the time he arrived at Penn Station, he couldn’t help wondering if, like Mr. Swann, he would regret not telling her for the rest of his life, because Mrs. Brewer had only been married for three months.