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| A Crime of Passion | p. 13 |
| They All Ran After the President's Wife | p. 69 |
| Hail, Columbia! | p. 159 |
| Merry Christmas/Joyeux Noel | p. 207 |
| Table of Contents provided by Blackwell. All Rights Reserved. |
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"Heap on more wood! -- the wind is chill;
But let it whistle as it will,
We'll keep our Christmas merry still."
Congresswoman Sandra O'Brien Britland looked up to see her poetry-spouting husband, the former president of the United States, standing in the doorway of her cozy office in Drumdoe, their country home in Bernardsville, New Jersey.
She smiled affectionately. Even in a turtleneck sweater, jeans, and worn ankle boots, Henry Parker Britland IV exuded a natural born-to-the-manner persona. The touches of gray in his dark brown hair, and thoughtful creases in his forehead, were almost the only signs that Henry was approaching his forty-fifth birthday.
"So it's Tennyson we're quoting," she said as she uncurled herself from the couch where she had been reading the seemingly endless stack of material about pending legislation. "I gather the 'All-Around Hunk' is up to something."
"Not Tennyson, love. Sir Walter Scott, and be aware I will hang you by the thumbs if you call me 'All-Around Hunk' again."
"ButPeoplemagazine just voted you that for the fifth year in a row. That's a real record. Pretty soon they'll have to create a 'Perennial Hunk' award and retire you from active consideration."
Seeing the mock-menacing look on Henry's face, Sunday said hastily, "Okay, okay. Just kidding."
"Your saw, Mr. President." Sims, the butler, appeared in the doorway, carrying a shiny new saw across upturned palms. He displayed it to Henry with the same reverence he might have shown in tendering the crown jewels.
"What in heaven's name is that all about?" Sunday exclaimed.
"What do you think, darling?" Henry inquired as he studied it carefully. "Well done, Sims. I think this should handle the job quite adequately."
"Are you planning to saw me in half?" Sunday asked.
"Orson Welles and Rita Hayworth had quite a successful act staging that scene. No, my sweet love, you and I are going into the woods. This morning when I was riding I spotted a magnificent evergreen that will be perfect for our first Christmas tree. It's at the north end of the property, out past the lake."
"You're going to cut it down yourself?" Sunday protested. "Henry, you're taking this 'all-around' business too seriously..."
Henry held up his free hand. "No arguments. I heard you say several weeks ago that one of your happiest memories was going out with your father to buy the Christmas tree, then helping him carry it home and trim it. This year, you and I are starting our own tradition."
Sunday tucked a runaway lock of blond hair behind her ear. "You're serious, aren't you?"
"Absolutely. We're going to tramp through the snow into our woods. I am going to cut down the tree, and together we're going to drag it back here."
Henry beamed in satisfaction at his plan. "Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. If we get the tree in and up today, we can start trimming it this evening and finish tomorrow. Sims will bring out the boxes from the storeroom, and you can select any ornaments you choose."
"We have quite a selection, madam," Sims volunteered. "Just last year Lanning decorators came as usual and did the blue-and-silver effect. Quite beautiful. The year before we had a white Christmas. Ah, yes, it was much admired."
"Lanning must be having a heart attack that you're not having him in this year," Sunday observed as she put the files and notepad aside and stood up. She walked over to Henry and put her arms around his waist. "I can see through you. You're doing this for me."
He cupped her face in his hands. "You've had a rough few weeks. I think we're putting together exactly the kind of Christmas you need. All the household help except for Sims gone, the Secret Service guys home with their own families. It'll be just the two of us and Sims."
Sunday swallowed over the sudden lump in her throat. Her mother had had an emergency triple bypass several weeks earlier. She was now recuperating at the Britland estate in the Bahamas, with Sunday's father in attendance. But it had been touch and go for a while, and the fear of losing her mother had shaken Sunday to the core.
"If it's quite all right with you, madam, that I stay..." Sims said, his tone questioning, his voice dignified, his demeanor as always stately.
"Sims, this has been your home for over thirty years," Sunday said. "You bet we want you to stay."
She pointed to the saw. "I thought woodchoppers used axes."
"You get to carry the ax," Henry said. "It's cold out there. Wear your ski outfit."
From behind the thick trunk of a hundred-year-old oak, Jacques cautiously moved his head to observe the tall man cutting down the tree. The lady was laughing and seemed to be trying to help, while the other man, who looked something likeGrand-père,just stood there.
Jacques didn't want them to see him. They might give him back to Lily, and Lily frightened him. In fact, she had frightened him since she first arrived to baby-sit him whileMamanand Richard went on their trip.
Mamanand Richard had been married last week. Jacques had liked his new daddy a lot, until Lily told him thatMamanand Richard had phoned to say they didn't want him anymore and had told her to take him away. Then they got in Lily's car and drove for a long time. Jacques remembered that he'd been asleep when a loud noise woke him, and the car spun around, then went off the road. The door next to him flew open, and he ran away.
Why didn'tMamangive him toGrand-pèreif she didn't want him any longer?Grand-pèrehad gone back to Paris earlier today. When he left,Grand-pèretold Jacques how happy he would be living in this nice place called Darien, in Richard's new home.Grand-pèrepromised that he could spend a month with him at the country house in Aix-en-Provence next summer, and in the meantime he would be sending Jacques lots of messages on his computer.
Even though he was going to be six soon, andMamankept calling him her "little man," it was too much for Jacques to understand. All he knew was thatMamanand Richard did not want him, and that he didn't want to be with Lily. If he could justtalktoGrand-père,maybeGrand-pèrewould come and get him. But what ifGrand-pèretold him he had to stay with Lily? Better not to talk to anyone, Jacques thought.
Opposite him, the big tree came down with a crash. The tall man and the lady and the man who looked likeGrand-pèrebegan to cheer, and then together they took hold of it and started to drag it away.
Silently, Jacques followed them.
"Almost satisfactory evergreen, sir," Sims remarked, "but perhaps it could be a trifle more centered."
"It isn't in the stand straight," Sunday observed. "In fact it's slightly lopsided. That's why it looks off center."
She was sitting cross-legged on the floor of the library going through the neatly packed boxes of Christmas ornaments. "However," she added, "considering the energy you two expended getting that tree into the stand in the first place, I'd suggest you leave it alone. It will be fine."
"I fully intend to," Henry said. "Which color scheme are you using?"
"None," Sunday told him. "All mixed up. Real loving- hands-at-home. Multicolored lights. Tinsel. I wish you had some battered ornaments that you remember from the time you were a kid."
"Better than that, I have your battered ornaments," Henry told her. "Before your folks left for Nassau, your dad retrieved them for me."
"I shall fetch the box containing them, sir," Sims offered, "and perhaps you and Madam would enjoy a glass of champagne while you decorate your tree."
"Fine with me," Henry said as he rubbed callused palms together. "You're ready for some bubbly, aren't you, sweetheart?"
Sunday did not answer. She was staring out at a spot just past the evergreen. "Henry," she said quietly, "please don't think I'm crazy, but for a second, I thought I saw a child's face pressed against the window."
Richard Dalton glanced briefly at his wife of seven days as they turned off Connecticut's Merritt Parkway and onto the road that led to Darien. In fluent French, he said, "I owe you a real honeymoon, Giselle."
Giselle DuBois Dalton tucked her hand under her husband's arm and answered in accented English. "Remember, Richard, from now on you're supposed to speak only English to me. And don't worry. We'll have a real honeymoon later. You know I wouldn't want to leave Jacques alone with a strange baby-sitter for more than a few hours. He's so shy."
"She speaks fluent French, dear, and that was important. The agency recommended her very highly."
"Even so." Giselle's voice sounded troubled. "Everything was so rushed, wasn't it?"
It was rushed, Dalton thought. He and Giselle had planned to be married in May. But the date got moved up when he had been offered the presidency of All-Flav, the worldwide soft drink company. Prior to then, he had been director of Coll-ette, All-Flav's chief competitor's French division. They had agreed that nobody only thirty-four years old turned down that kind of job, especially when it came with a substantial signing bonus. Giselle and he had been married last week and a few days later had come to the house the company rented for them in Darien.
On Friday evening the housekeeper, Lily, who they had been told would not be available to start with them until after Christmas, had unexpectedly shown up. So on Saturday morning, Giselle's father, Louis, urged them to go to New York for a brief honeymoon weekend. "I'll be here with Jacques until noon on Monday. Then Lily can certainly mind him for a few hours until you return Monday afternoon after the company luncheon," he had said.
But the company Christmas luncheon had run longer than expected, and now, as they got nearer to the Darien house, Richard could feel Giselle's tension building. He understood her concern. Widowed at twenty-four and left with an infant son, she had gone to work in the publicity department of Coll-ette; it was there that they had met a year ago.
It hadn't been an easy courtship. Giselle was so fiercely protective of Jacques, so afraid that a stepfather -- any stepfather -- wouldn't be good to him.
They also had expected to live in Paris indefinitely. But then, in just a matter of a few weeks, she had to both change her wedding plans and relocate. Richard knew that Giselle's biggest worry, however, was that the change -- a new father, a new home -- was too abrupt for Jacques. Besides, he was barely starting to learn English.
"Home sweet new home," Richard said cheerfully as he steered the car into the long driveway.
Giselle was opening the passenger door even before he braked.
"The house is so dark," she said. "Why didn't Lily turn the lights on?"
Richard's flip suggestion that Lily was obviously a thrifty French lady died on his lips. The house had a deserted air about it even he found ominous. Although it was almost dark, there wasn't a single light shining from any window.
He caught up with Giselle at the front door. She was fumbling in her purse for her key. "I have it, dear," he told her.
The door opened to reveal a shadowed foyer. "Jacques," Giselle called. "Jacques."
Richard flicked the light switch. As the area brightened, he saw a sheet of paper propped on the foyer table. It read:"N'appelez par la police. Attends nos instructions avant de rien faire."
Don't call the police. Wait for instructions.
"Miss LaMonte, how are you feeling?"
She opened her eyes slowly to see a solicitous state trooper looking down at her. What had happened? she wondered briefly. Then vivid memory came flooding back. The car had blown a tire, and she had lost control. It had gone off the road and down the embankment. She had smashed her head on the wheel.
The boy. Jacques. Had he told them about her? What should she say? She would go to prison.
She felt a hand on her shoulder. She realized that a doctor was standing on the other side of the bed.
"Easy," he said reassuringly. "You're in the emergency room of Morristown General Hospital. You've had a pretty bad bump, but otherwise you're fine. We tried to notify your family, but there's no answer yet."
Notify her family? Of course. She still had the card case Pete had lifted, with the real Lily LaMonte's driver's license, registration, medical insurance, and credit cards.
Despite her throbbing head, Betty Rouche's ability to lie returned with lightning speed. "Actually, that's fortunate. I'm joining my family for Christmas, and I wouldn't want to frighten them with a call."
Where should she say she was joining them? Where was the boy?
"You were alone in the car?"
A vague impression of the passenger door opening filtered through her clouded memory. The child must have run away. "Yes," she whispered.
"Your car has been towed to the nearest gas station, but I'm afraid it needs major repairs," the state trooper told her. "It may well be a write-off."
She had to get out of here. Betty looked at the doctor. "I'll have my brother come back and take care of the car. Can I leave now?" "Yes, I would say so. But take it easy. And see your own physician next week."
With a reassuring smile the doctor left the cubicle. "I'll need you to sign the accident report," the trooper told her. "Will someone pick you up?"
"Yes. Thank you. I'll phone my brother."
"Well, good luck. It could have been a lot worse. A blowout and no air bag..." The trooper did not finish the thought.
Ten minutes later, Betty was in a cab on her way to a rental car agency. Twenty minutes after that, she was on her way to New York City. The plan had been to take the boy to her cousin Pete's house in Somerville, but no way was she going there now.
She waited until she was safely out of town before she pulled into a gas station and phoned. Now that she was somewhere safer, she had to vent her fury on the cousin who had talked her into this crazy scheme.
"It's a cinch," he had told her, "the kind of break that comes along once in a lifetime." Pete worked for the Best Choice Employment Agency in Darien. He called himself a trainee, but Betty knew his job ranged from running errands to mowing lawns for the rental properties the agency managed.
Like her, he was thirty-two; they had grown up next door to each other and, over the years, had gotten into a lot of trouble together. They still laughed about how they had trashed the high school, an adventure for which other kids got blamed.
But she should have known Pete was out of his league with this crazy scheme. "Look," he had told her, "at the agency I heard all about them, this couple with the kid. This guy, Richard Dalton, just deposited a check for six million bucks; his signing bonus, they call it. I've even worked at the rental place they'll be living in. Another executive had it six months ago. And I know Lily LaMonte. She's been used by other people through the agency, and she's the only one they have who is right for this job. They need a nanny who is fluent in French. Well, I happen to know she's going to New Mexico for Christmas. So you take her place. You're her type and age, and you speak good French. Once the couple takes off, you take the kid to my place in Somerville. I'll handle picking up the ransom and all that. It'll be a swap. We get a million bucks to split between us."
"And if they call the cops?"
"They won't, but even if they do, what does it matter? Nobody knows you. Why suspect me? We won't hurt the kid. Plus I'll be in a position to watch what's happening. Part of my job is to keep that place plowed and shoveled. We're gonna have more snow. So I'll know if there's any sign of cops there. I phone and tell Dalton to leave the money in their mailbox tomorrow night and the kid's home for Christmas. Get the cops and they won't hear from us again."
"And if they do bring in the cops, what do we do with the child?"
"Same thing we do if we get the money. No matter what goes down, you leave the kid in a church in New York. Their prayers will be answered."
To Betty it sounded like trashing the school and getting away with it. Pete wouldn't hurt the kid any more than she would. Just like it never even occurred to them to burn down the school. They wouldn't have done that. When he answered the phone, Pete's voice was edgy.
"I thought you'd be in Somerville hours ago."
"I might have been if you'd made sure that lousy car had decent tires," Betty snapped.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
She could feel her voice rising as she told him what had happened.
He interrupted her. "Shut up and listen to me. The deal's off. Forget the money. No more contact with them. Where's the kid?"
"I don't know. I woke up in a hospital. Apparently the boy had run off before the cops found me." "If he starts talking, they'll tie him to you. Do they know you were renting another car?"
"The cabdriver knows."
"Okay. Dump that car and get lost. Just make sure you lie low. Remember, there's nothing to tie us to the missing kid."
"Sure there isn't," Betty exclaimed bitterly as she slammed down the phone.
"Sir, there's no report as yet of a missing child," the policeman told Henry. "But I'll take the boy to headquarters; a representative of Family Services will pick him up there if no one comes for him soon. Chances are, though, that some mighty worried people are searching hard for him right now."
They were clustered in the library at Drumdoe. The room was dominated by the towering, still-unadorned, slightly-tilted Christmas tree, which remained exactly as it had been when Sunday spotted Jacques's face at the window. Realizing he had been seen, the little boy had tried to run away, but Henry had rushed out in time to catch him. When their gentle questions yielded nothing but silence, Henry had phoned the police while Sunday unzipped and removed the child's outer jacket. Gently she had rubbed warmth back into chilled small fingers, all the while keeping up a steady stream of words, hoping to win his confidence, heartsick to see the terror in his blue-green eyes.
Now the policeman squatted in front of the child. "About five or six, wouldn't you think, sir? That's what my sister's kid is, and he's about this size." He smiled at Jacques. "I'm a policeman and I'm going to help find your mom and dad. Bet they're looking all over the place for you right now. We're going to go for a ride in my car to the place where they can pick you up. Okay?"
He put his hand on Jacques's shoulder and started to ease the boy toward him. His face contorted with fear, Jacques pulled back and turned toward Sunday, grabbing her skirt with both hands as though begging for protection.
"He's frightened to death," Sunday said. She knelt beside the quivering boy and put her arm around him. "Officer, can't you just leave him here? I'm sure you'll get a call about him soon. While we're waiting, he can help us trim the tree. Can't you, little guy?"
Sunday felt the small boy shrinking against her. "Can't you?" she asked gently. At his lack of response, she said, "I think he may not be able to hear."
"Or speak," Henry agreed. "Officer, I think my wife is right. You know he's safe and warm here. We'll give him dinner; certainly by then you'll have learned who he is and where he belongs."
"I'm afraid I can't do that, sir. I will have to take him to headquarters. We'll need to take his picture and have an exact physical description for the teletype alert we'll send out. Then it will be up to the Family Services people to decide if we can place him with you until he's claimed."
Mamanhad taught him a long time ago that if he ever got lost, he should go to agendarmeand tell him his name and his address and his phone number. Jacques was sure that this man was agendarme,but he couldn't give him his name or address or phone number.Mamanand Richard had given him away to Lily, and he didn't want her to come for him, ever.
This lady reminded him ofMaman.Her hair was the same color and the way she smiled at him was the way Maman smiled. She was gentle. Not like Lily, who did not smile, and who made him change into the uncomfortably tight clothes he was wearing now. Jacques was hungry and tired. And very afraid. He wanted to be back in Paris, safe withMamanandGrand-père.
Soon it would be laFête de Noël.Last year Richard had come to their house with trains for him. Jacques remembered that together they had laid the tracks and set up the train station and the bridges and the little houses along the tracks. Richard had promised they would set them up this year in the new house. But Richard had lied to him.
Jacques felt himself being picked up. They were going to take him away, back to Lily. In terror, he buried his face in his hands.
Two hours later, when Lily had not appeared, and thegendarmebrought him back to the big house, Jacques felt the scared feeling start to go away. He knew Lily wasn't in this house. He would be safe here. Tears of relief welled in his eyes. The door opened, and the man who looked likeGrand-pèrelet them in and led them back to the room with the Christmas tree. The tall man and the lady were there.
"The child was examined," the policeman told Henry and Sunday. "The doctor says he's in good health and seems to have been well cared for. He still hasn't spoken, and he refused to eat anything, but the doctor says it's too soon to tell if it's a physical problem or if he's just frightened. We have his picture and description on the teletype. My guess is that he'll be claimed pretty soon, but in the meantime Family Services okayed his staying with you."
Jacques did not know what thegendarmehad said, but the lady who looked likeMamanknelt down and put her arms around him. He could tell she was kind; he felt safe with her, a little like the way he had felt whenMamanhad loved him. The giant lump in his throat began to melt.
Sunday felt him tremble against her. "It's okay to cry," she murmured, as she stroked his silky brown hair.
Richard Dalton watched helplessly as his wife sat staring at the phone. Giselle was clearly in shock. Her pupils were enormous, her face expressionless. As the hours passed and they heard nothing from Jacques's kidnappers, his every instinct insisted that the police be called. But at the suggestion, Giselle became almost hysterical."Non, non, non,you cannot, you will not. They will kill him. We must do what they say. We must wait for instructions."
He should have known something was wrong when that woman showed up unexpectedly, he told himself bitterly. The agency had been adamant that she would be away over Christmas and could not begin working until the twenty-seventh. We should have checked, of course, he thought. It would have been simple just to call the agency and confirm. But how did the woman who had said she was Lily LaMonte know to come to the house? Obviously it had all been planned; she was to abduct Jacques at the first opportunity. It was Giselle's father who had finally convinced them to accept the woman who called herself Lily LaMonte, and who urged them to spend the weekend in New York. It was ironic as well, for he would be distraught if anything happened to Jacques. No, it was not his fault, Richard thought. We probably would have entrusted Jacques to that woman today when we went to the company luncheon. He shook his head. Maybe, maybe not, he thought. It's too late to wonder about such things now.
He had to do something though. The inactivity was driving him crazy. He had to believe that this was about money and that they would get Jacques back by tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
Christmas Eve!
He sighed. Maybe it wouldn't be that quick. His signing bonus had been well publicized. It was logical for the kidnapper to assume that he could put his hands on six million dollars. But surely no one would expect that he would have that kind of money available at short notice. The most he could get from a cash machine was a few hundred dollars.
The kidnapper or kidnappers had to be planning to keep Jacques overnight. If they phoned by morning, he would be able to get cash from the bank. But how much cash? How much would they demand? If it was in the millions, it would take several days to get it together. No bank had that much ready cash on tap. And large withdrawals meant questions.
Giselle was weeping now, tears that slid silently down her cheeks. Her lips were forming her son's name.Jacques. Jacques.
It's my fault, Richard thought. Giselle and Jacques came with me willingly, and look what I've done to them. He could not stand the inactivity any longer. He had promised Jacques that they would set up his trains in time for Christmas. He looked about the room. The boxes were in a corner of the family room in which they were sitting.
Richard got up, went over to the boxes, and squatted on the floor. His strong fingers ripped the seal of the first box apart, and he reached in and pulled out sections of track. Last year, on Christmas Eve, when Jacques opened the brightly wrapped packages inGrand-pe´re'shouse, Richard had explained that Santa had left this present early so that he could help Jacques put it together. When the tracks and the trains and the bridges and the houses were completely set up, he had pointed out the switch to Jacques.
"This is what makes it start," he had explained. "Try it."
Jacques had thrown the switch. The lights in the little houses blazed, the whistles blew, the crossing gates came down, and as he cautiously opened the throttle, the antique Lionel locomotive with six cars behind it chugged for a few moments, then raced forward.
The look of awe on Jacques's face had been indescribable.
Come on, Jacques, Richard prayed, I'm going to put this train set together again, and you've got to get back here to run it with me.
The phone rang. He jumped up, managing to take it from Giselle's grasp before she had a chance to speak. "Richard Dalton," he said crisply.
A voice, low and husky, obviously attempting to be disguised, asked, "How much cash you got in the house?"
Richard thought rapidly. "About two thousand dollars," he said.
Pete Schuler had changed his mind. Maybe he could get a few bucks out of this after all.
"Did you call the police?"
"No, I swear we didn't."
"Okay. Leave the cash in the mailbox now. Then close all the blinds. I don't want you looking out, understand?"
"Yes, yes. We'll do anything you say. Is Jacques all right? I want to talk to him."
"You'll talk to him soon enough. Put the cash out where I told you and the kid is trimming the tree with you tomorrow night."
"Take care of him. You've got to take care of him." "We will. But remember, any sign of police and he's in South America being adopted. Got it?"
They haven't threatened to kill him, Richard thought. At least they haven't threatened to kill him. Then he heard a click. He put the phone down and put his arms around Giselle. "He'll be returned to us tomorrow," he said.
The window of the second-floor center bedroom looked out directly over the curbside mailbox. It was at this window that Richard established his observation post, peering through a slit in the draperies. The phone, on a long extension cord, was positioned right next to him. He knew that Giselle might not understand any instructions the growly voiced caller would give. Clearly, she was on the verge of collapse, but he did manage to get her to lie on the bed near the window, an afghan tucked around her. His final preparation had been to adjust his camera to allow for the minimal lighting conditions.
As he settled in for his watch, Richard realized despairingly how little he would be able to learn about anyone who attempted to take the money. The street was unlighted, the sky filled with heavy, threatening clouds. He would be lucky to even determine the make of car the person was driving. I should call the police, he thought. That's probably the one chance we would have to follow whoever comes here for the money.
He sighed. But if hedidnotify the police, and then something went wrong, he would never be able to forgive himself, and he knew that Giselle would never forgive him.
His mind flashed back to when he was nine years old, and to the piano lessons his mother had made him take. One of the few songs he had managed to get through without a mistake was "All Through the Night." He remembered that his mother would sometimes sit beside him on the piano bench and sing the words while he played:
Sleep, my child, and peace attend thee
All through the night.
Guardian angels God will send thee
All through the night.
Let guardian angels take care of our little boy,Richard prayed silently as he listened to Giselle's soft sobbing.
A final fragment of the song ran through his head:"And I my loving vigil peeping, all through the night."
Dinner was simple: salad, French bread, pasta with basil and tomato sauce. The child sat with Henry and Sunday at the table in the small dining room. He took the napkin from beside the plate and placed it on his lap, but did not look at Sims when offered the bread and did not touch the food.
"Hehasto be hungry," Henry said. "It's nearly seven-thirty." He took a bite of the pasta and smiled at Jacques. "Ummm... delicious."
Jacques looked at him gravely, then averted his eyes.
"Perhaps a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich?" Sims suggested. "How you enjoyed them when you were a lad, sir."
"Let's just ignore him for a few minutes and see what happens," Sunday said. "I think he's terribly frightened, but I agree, he must be hungry. If he doesn't start eating in a couple of minutes, we'll switch menus. Sims, if we do try the peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich, substitute milk for the Coke."
She twirled pasta onto her fork. "Henry, don't you think it's very odd that the police haven't heard from anyone about a missing child? I mean, if he were from a house around here, any normal parent would have been calling them immediately to report him missing. My point is, how did hegethere? Do you think he might have been deliberately left on our doorstep?"
"I can't believe that," Henry said. "Anyone deliberately planning to leave the child here would have to be psychic to know that we sent the Secret Service guys home for these few days. Otherwise they'd have been seen and questioned at the gates. I think it's more likely that for some incredible reason he simply hasn't been missed yet."
Sunday glanced at Jacques then quickly back at Henry. "Don't look now," she said quietly, "but a certain little guy is starting to dig in."
For the rest of the meal, she and Henry chatted, ostensibly ignoring Jacques, who finished t
Excerpted from My Gal Sunday by Mary Higgins Clark
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