Chapter Seven– Watermark

Watermark—a faint identifying design, usually in quality paper.

A date.

Abby called it a date.

One week after one of the worst breakups on record, and I was out on a date.

I must be nuts.

It didn't help that, during Evelyn's farewell lunch, I had let it slip about tonight. "You're going to a party with Dr. Mallard?"

I had nodded, uncertain of how to proceed.

To my relief, she looked happy. "I'm glad. He's very nice. I was trying to scope him out for you the other day—" When I looked surprised, she laughed. "Sandy… I told you. You're a great gal—and you deserve better. I think he might be the right one for you."

So why was I sitting two miles away from his house in a shopping center parking lot, burning gas and trying to not turn around and go home?

Because I was scared out of my wits. Scared I'd screw up again.

More scared that Evelyn might be right.

I let out a deep breath and put the van into gear. Scared or not, my parents didn't raise their kids to cancel a dinner invitation ten minutes before plates were to set down. Trying not to feel like I was going to my doom, I followed that last turns of Ducky's precise directions and pulled up in front of a large two-story house. You can do this. Get back on the horse!

I tried not to crush the tissue-wrapped flowers as I walked up the path. 'Flowers, candy or wine' had been drummed into me from school age. After last week, I wasn't inclined to buy any liquor; doctors are notoriously anti-sweets; thank god for fall flowers. I knocked on the front door and heard a chorus of tiny yaps in response. Oh, crap—he had mentioned his mother had dogs. This was not a good costume to be dodging doggies in.

One of the doors opened and an elderly woman peered out. "Yes?"

"Mrs. Mallard?" I actually recognized her from her long-ago visits. She hadn't changed much over the years.

"Yes…?"

"I'm Cassandra Talmadge. I'm a friend of—" I suddenly realized that 'Ducky' probably wasn't what his mother called him. "Your son's," I finished weakly.

"Yes…?" Small gold and white dogs milled about her feet, yapping and looking at me with great interest.

"He invited me to join you for dinner—and to a cost—ah, fancy dress party?"

"Oh…" she looked at me in great puzzlement. "Is that—is that a costume?"

No, I always run around with a parasol and looking like I'm going to bust out in 'Ascot Gavotte.' "Ah, yes ma'am, it is." Visions of Agent McGee flashed before me; I had used the hated word ma'am. Twenty lashes with a piece of overcooked spaghetti.

"But—you look like a lady," she said, still confused.

"Ah—thank you." I chose not to launch into my Audrey Hepburn imitation.

I could hear footsteps behind her. "But this is a costume?" She almost sounded indignant.

"Yes—"

She drew herself up to full height and smacked her cane on the floor. "Show me your knickers!" she demanded.

I gasped in amused shock and tried not to laugh. Behind her, I heard the anguished cry of, "Mo-ther!" from a very mortified Ducky.

"If you truly are a lady—you knickers will show it!"

Ducky was close enough that I could see him. "Oh, mother!" It was half-sigh, half-groan. He looked absolutely miserable.

I giggled.

I tried hard not to. Really. I bit my lip, I pinched my wrist, I tried thinking sad thoughts. It didn't work.

My giggle turned into a laugh. "Hi, ah, Du-Du—Donald," I finally managed, dragging his given name up from the depths. I held out the flowers. "Thank you. I am—" I composed myself somewhat and gave him what I hoped was a dazzling smile. "I am so glad—to be here tonight. Thank you for inviting me." Absolute, on-the-witness-stand, sworn-oath truth. Nerves gone, confidence restored. I kicked myself for having ever hesitated; I was already having a great time.

He took the flowers with one hand and drew me into the house with the other, his mother giving me a look that didn't quite qualify as an evil eye. Barely. "Thank you for joining us." He gave me a quick kiss on the cheek, ignoring the "Harrumph!" to the side. "You look smashing," he whispered in passing. I knew I was blushing. "Dinner will be ready in just a moment. Would you like a cocktail?" he asked in more normal tones.

Took guts to ask that question. "Mineral water, club soda?"

He escorted us to the drawing room ('living room' just doesn't fit in a house like that) and left us with club soda on the rocks for me—and a very watered down Scotch for his mother. He retired (fled?) to the kitchen to finish dinner and his mother sat ramrod straight on the settee, watching me warily over the edge of her glass.

"Mrs. Mallard?"

"Yes?" she asked suspiciously. Her tone made me glad for my idea.

I made a show of looking around. "It wouldn't have been… proper… while Donald was here, but..." I shinnied up the tight skirt—no mean feat, even though the stage costume was in forgiving stretch material—and showed off the loose cotton leggings over my own underwear. The costumer had talked me into wearing them (she called them "not bloomers"), saying they made the line of the gown smooth. (She was right.) Upon hearing the date/it's not a date was with Abby's beloved 'Duckman,' she had insisted on showing up at the store to help me with my hair and makeup, too. I had to admit—I looked darn good.

And apparently my 'knickers' passed muster. Mrs. Mallard actually smiled at me and patted the seat next to her. I obediently sat. For the next several minutes, she regaled me with a scrambled program of tales—her dogs (Corgis, apparently), her son (whose age jumped from college to grade school and back within paragraphs), her lack of grandchildren (she gave me a speculative look—I changed the subject as quickly as possible) and the spy across the street.

I was relieved when Ducky came back to bring us into the dining room for dinner. "Mother, I've told you—Mr. Eller is a bird enthusiast. He's not a spy. He uses his binoculars for bird watching."

"Pah!" was her response. She allowed her son to take her arm and guide her down the hall. Just inside the doorway, she stopped and grasped his arm. "Donald!" she whispered excitedly.

"What, Mother?" He looked concerned.

"She's a lady," she said sagely. She had forgotten I was standing right behind them. "I've seen her knickers!"

I clamped my lips together and rocked on my heels, barely smothering my laughter. He turned and looked over his mother's shoulder, at a loss for words. "Oh," he finally managed. He looked—well, astonished is probably the closest word. I almost choked on the buried giggles. "That's… very… nice… Mother."

She turned and smiled up at me. "Donald makes a lovely Yorkshire pudding, my dear."

She was right. He did.

Once dinner was over and the night nurse had arrived, Ducky hurried upstairs to change, leaving me to wander alone downstairs for a few minutes. I looked around politely, but refrained from poking too closely. It was what my grandmother would have called a "handsome" room, very neat, very coordinated, with nice, solid furniture. A little too floral for my taste, but I could see Mrs. Mallard's hand in that. Definite feeling of Ducky, too: neatly shelved record albums (and CDs; he wasn't afraid of new technology), pretty gee-gaws, tchotchkes and dust catchers… and books. Lots of books.

I didn't doubt for a minute that Abby's books were arranged according to LoC; Ducky's were simply broken down by subject, with photos and whatnots between the areas. All sorts of nonfiction topics, everything from art to zoology. And plenty of fiction, heavy on the mysteries.

He had recognized the reference book on the Globe restoration because he owned a copy of the book; it was tucked neatly next to a set of annotated Shakespeare with—oh, wow!—Arthur Rackham illos. (I barely managed not to drool.) I pulled out the volume containing "The Tempest" and moved closer to the study lamp.

The book fell open to Act IV, scene 1; apparently Ducky was fond of Prospero's speech as well.

We are such stuff as dreams are made on

And our little life is rounded with a sleep.

Such stuff as dreams are made on… for good or for bad.

David was definitely a dream, a pipe dream. His marriage was a sham, his loyalty to his government, to his company as baseless as his promises to me… Prospero's spirits had more substance. He had created a life on dreams and fantasy, and it carried through to everyone around him: his wife, me—even Mimi.

Evelyn? I sighed. Her love for me was a dream; in a different existence, it could have been a reality. But in the here and now it turned into a dream that had her hoping against hope and marking time for years, even willing to perpetrate crimes for that dream.

It wasn't so much being the stuff dreams were made on as being damaged or destroyed by the them.

But… dreams aren't always bad. Barb's dreams had brought her back to school; now that she was about to hit the big five-oh they had her well on the way to her own law degree. Val's dreams of a higher career had given her the courage to take over Evelyn's slot with a new confidence and maturity that gave me hope for the coming months. It was all in what dreams you chose—were they things that would fade away at the morning light, "and leave not a rack behind"… or were they dreams you could craft to a new reality?

Dreams.

And what about your dreams? my impish inner voice asked.

I shook my head slightly and returned the book to the shelf. It was too soon to be asking about my dreams.

"Professional curiosity?" came from the doorway behind me.

I smiled; he has a very pleasant voice, even when sneaking up from behind. "Yep."

"The cookbooks are all in the kitchen."

"Appropriate." I turned around; he was standing in the door, wearing an older-style suit—nineteen-thirties or forties, I guessed—in a dark brown. The meaning was lost on me.

"Shall we, my dear?"

Falling into character, I gave him a small curtsey of acquiescence and collected my parasol and outrageous hat from the chair by the fireplace. (Thank god the dogs hadn't decided to nest on them during dinner.) I followed him outside to the garage; when he opened the door, I laughed. "It was you!"

"Pardon?"

"Last Saturday morning!" I looked over the vintage car with respect. "I was standing outside, you drove by—I thought, 'wow, that is a gorgeous car.'"

"Thank you." He looked pleased at my appreciation. All men like it when you make nice-nice about their cars. I don't care how sexist that sounds—it's true. He gave my hat an appraising look. "We can drive with the top down," he said hesitantly. "Or—"

"I'll hold it on my lap," I said quickly. It was cold, and besides—I wasn't up for chasing the damn thing down the street.

He handed me into the car, making sure my layers of fabric were safely inside before shutting the door. He hopped into the driver's side, backed the car ("A Morgan, my dear.") out and hit the remote to shut the door.

True to his word, the party was only a few minutes away; barely time to start a conversation. I used the side mirror to adjust my hat and anchor it with the enormous hatpin. (It was a toss up between bare head and hat—the hat was gorgeous, but so was the magic Abby's friend had performed on my hair.) "Ready or not, here I go," I muttered. I stood and saw Ducky adjusting a battered fedora on his head. "I have to ask, Ducky. Who are you? What is your costume from?"

He tipped his hat back and struck a rakish pose. Indiana Jones? Nah. He grinned. "Aah, c'mon, schweetheart," he said. Not a bad Bogart—if you ignored the English accent (with just a slight hint of Glasgow in the background).

I grinned in return. "Not The African Princess," I said, trying to think of Bogart movies. "Maltese Falcon?"

He shook his head. "Meet me in—"

"St. Louis?" I finished doubtfully. That didn't sound right. That was Judy Garland and… oh, man, somebody who wasn't Bogart. NCIS' resident Remington Steele would know, of course.

"Casablanca," he said patiently in his normal voice.

"Ohhhh. Of course. 'Play it, Sam.'"

"Correct. Most people misquote it as, 'Play it again, Sam.' Agent DiNozzo corrected me the other day." He held out his arm and I slipped my free hand through the crook of his elbow. "Thish could be the shtart of something beautiful," he misquoted. I must admit—I kind of liked "something beautiful" instead of "a beautiful friendship."

I smiled up at him.

Maybe… just maybe… he was right.

-7-

Definitions courtesy IOBA (Independent Online Booksellers Association).

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