“What about asking your magazine for an advance on travel expenses? Isn’t traveling part of your job, or am I a blubbering imbecile?”
I was the blubbering imbecile, to use her beautifully poetic words. The thought hadn’t crossed my mind. I hung up on my sister midsentence and called my editor in chief. By the time he picked up, I had already contrived an angle for the article. The magazine was long overdue for a feature on Baltimore. After all, the city had some intense urban renewal underway, not to mention one of the largest commercial ports on the East Coast. We could also do a sidebar on Johns Hopkins University (the article was writing itself—thanks, Wikipedia!). Why not highlight the Reginald F. Lewis Museum, a center for African American history?
When I paused, my editor grunted out his indifference, not quite sold on the pitch. “Baltimore isn’t exactly sexy stuff, you know.”
“Oh, I beg to differ. It’s sexy, all right. And undiscovered.”
Another grunt, but with a little more interest this time. “Let’s say you’re right. Why Baltimore, out of the blue?”
“Because no one knows about it, and I’m out to remedy that!”
Right in the nick of time, I made a serendipitous discovery at the bottom of the screen, the perfect weapon for a masterful coup de grace. My boss had a well-documented Edgar Allan Poe obsession, and since the illustrious poet had been kind enough to make Baltimore his final resting place, I pitched using Poe to tie the feature together, complete with a perfectly pompous title: Baltimore and the Last Days of Edgar Allan Poe.
Before I even got to “Poe,” my boss had burst out laughing. I couldn’t blame him.
“Easy, tiger,” he said, composing himself. “How about you just stick with the economic resurgence angle, how far the city has come and all that, how it’s growing into an appealing destination for students. Engage with locals, take the city’s pulse. The elections are just a few weeks away, and I’m not convinced Trump is going to get the epic ass-whooping all the polls are predicting. So, fine. I’ll sign off on a one-week assignment. Accounting will send your funds through tomorrow. And take a nice snapshot of Edgar Allan Poe’s tombstone for me, will you? You never know.”
Under normal circumstances, I would have literally jumped for joy at having convinced my editor to green-light a story I came up with all on my own. But not tonight. While my job was entirely built on leaping into the unknown, I had a sinking feeling that this trip would uncover things of a whole different nature. And for once, my courage was faltering.
In any event, I couldn’t leave England without saying goodbye to my family. Seeing Maggie was pointless; she would just berate me again and do everything within her power to change my mind. I had a feeling Dad wouldn’t take the news very well either, considering I had promised to stay in London longer this time around. But I was most concerned about telling Michel. Even though it was already late, I called him and asked if I could drop by.
“You . . . want to come here? Why?”
My silence told Michel everything he needed to know. He sighed. “When are you leaving?” he asked.
“Tomorrow, an early-afternoon flight.”
“Will you be gone for a long time?”
“No. I’ll be back soon, I promise. A week, ten days at the most.”
“Are you hungry? I can go down to the corner shop and buy us something for dinner, for example.”
“That sounds great. You and I are long overdue for a one-on-one.”
Just after getting off the phone, Michel turned to Vera Morton and announced that his sister was on her way.
“Would you be very cross if we were to share this meal that you’ve prepared with my sister?” Michel asked Vera.
“No, not in the least bit. It’s just that I hadn’t really thought she’d find out about us like this.”
While the way Michel spoke could sometimes lack subtlety, his eyes were a dead giveaway. Vera instantly understood. She grabbed her jacket, checked over the table, and returned the wineglasses to the cabinet. After all, Michel would have never thought to put those out on his own. Everything now sorted, Vera took her leave.
I rang the doorbell, and my brother appeared in the doorway, wearing a kitchen apron, of all things. Without a word, he ushered me into the living room, where the surprises just kept on coming. I never imagined he’d go to such trouble for me. He slipped into the kitchen and returned with a piping-hot casserole that he placed carefully on a trivet. I sat down and lifted the lid. Steam wafted up toward my nose, and my stomach growled in response.
“Since when do you know how to cook?”
“Unless I’m mistaken, this marks the first time you’ve ever visited before leaving. Or should I say, before leaving in such a hurry. Thus, I thought long and hard after receiving your call, and naturally concluded that something was wrong, something you didn’t wish to speak of on the telephone. And that’s why you have come. A logical analysis.”
“Sure, but even a logical analysis can be wrong. Especially with a sister as complicated as yours.”