ST, NY
by Gale Force
London
Peter Peel closed the car door on his wife, kissed her through the open window, and then stood and watched as the sleek blue Lotus disappeared down the drive.
He turned and walked back into their house, feeling a little melancholy. Emma was going to Paris, alone. For her birthday.
It had been six months since he'd returned "from the dead," and things had been wonderful. They'd spent the time getting to know each other, and falling in love, all over again.
He still flew as a test pilot - although now only over English soil, and although she had relinquished her day-to-day role as the president of Knight Industries some three years ago (soon after his disappearance), she still owned most of the shares and made quite a good living from that business.
Which did not prevent her from having made a second career as a journalist, selling articles to dozens of diverse publications, from Bridge World to Miniature Mechanic Monthly to World History.
And from going to Paris to spend her birthday alone.
Not that it was completely a surprise. Indeed, for the four years they'd been married, she'd also made it a point to spend her birthday alone, in Paris. It was her day to "reflect and think on the future," as she'd put it.
But he'd been back for only six months...
Peter poured himself a small drink, then took up a book and relaxed on the divan.
"Do you have to go this year?" he'd asked her.
"I've never missed a year since I was eighteen," she'd told him. "Well...once. But that was a really extraordinary circumstance. I've told you, Peter. A trip to Paris was the first I'd ever taken on my own, it marked my "coming out." And I've made it a point to repeat that journey - both a physical and mental one - every year since. So don't worry, Peter. I'll be back by noon tomorrow."
Peter took a sip of his drink, and dismissed the matter from his mind. She'd be back tomorrow, and he'd cook her a nice dinner and they'd go dancing. Perhaps catch a cabaret...
Paris
Emma's plane landed at the Orly Airport on time, and she took the bus into Paris, arriving about noon. She carried only a small overnight bag, and dropped that off at the pension where she'd rented a room every year for the last decade (also excepting that one year when Steed had brought her here for her birthday - after that business with the diabolical Basil and Lola and the massacre of so many good agents.)
A slight breeze swirled her brown hair swirled around her shoulders, and many's the eyes that turned to watch her slim form, clad in red turtleneck sweater and black slacks, as she passed them by.
She came to a café with a few empty tables scattered around the sidewalk, and sat down, after ordering a coffee and two chocolate eclairs from the patron in perfect French.
Although she had a pocket notebook and pen in her purse, she didn't bring them out. She never went anywhere without them, of course - writers never took holidays and one never knew when a great story, or opportunity for a story, would occur to one.
But for now she was content to munch on her eclairs slowly and with considerable enjoyment, and watch the people passing her from either direction, hurrying about their business. She amused herself trying to guess what their purposes were - were they going somewhere on business, to go shopping, or what?
Occasionally a couple walked by, man and woman - usually young, entwined in each other's arm, so much in love...or just in lust, she wondered. Such a pity, that...making love meant so much more when one actually was in love...would they ever realize that, these anonymous people strolling down the pavement?
She finished her second brioche and debated on whether to have a third, but then smiled to herself. No, two was a sufficiency. She'd have another as dessert tonight after dinner.
She went to the Louvre, and spent a few hours there. It was possible to spend an entire day at the Louvre, it was huge - bigger even than the British Museum. And it was visited by thousands of people every day, so once again Emma people-watched, at the knots of school children being escorted around by their teachers, travel tours with the exhausted "if this is Tuesday this must be Belgium" looks on their faces, a few artists with sketch pads standing in front of their favorite works.
She stopped in front of the Mona Lisa - the most famous painting in the world, and mourned at the security measures in place to ensure that it was not damaged by some deranged person anxious to destroy an irreplaceable work of art in order to highlight their own grievances.
Emma left the Louvre and walked once more down the streets of Paris. It was almost dinner time. Should she eat a light meal, and then go see a show? She always enjoyed seeing one of Moliere's works, put on at the Comedie Francaise - a building almost 300 years old...
She'd have to buy a newspaper...see what was playing there...
Emma came to the restaurant she had in mind - another open-air restaurant - and settled in her place. Again the tables were not particularly full - most Europeans dined later than their British counterparts.
This was her favorite restaurant - Le Gioconda, named, as it happened, after the Mona Lisa.
She glanced around the tables. A man at a table, face buried in a newspaper, a couple of business men wolfing down food.
The patron bustled forward, smiling. "Madame Peel, how lovely to see you. I have a table for you here."
He brought her to her favorite corner...next to the man with his face buried in the newspaper.
"And what would you like," he demanded. "The wine - it is on the house."
Emma smiled her appreciation and gave her order. He bustled away.
The man lowered the newspaper.
"Mrs. Peel."
Emma Peel's hands went to her face in stunned shock. "Steed!"
They both rose simultaneously and embraced. Very long. Emma had his face buried in his shoulder and his fingers spread against the back of her head, feeling the warmth and silkiness of her hair.
After a while Emma lifted her head and looked into his eyes.
They kissed, very briefly.
Then Steed released her and she resumed her seat, and he sat opposite her.
"What are you doing here?" asked Emma. "How did you know...?"
"Did you forget?" asked Steed. "You mentioned it...our first year...you said you always went to Paris alone for your birthday...and I remembered the next year..we came here for dinner..."
"Steed, how lovely."
He grinned.
The patron returned with a bottle of wine and two glasses, and a wink for Steed. He poured a small bit for Steed who tasted it, and pronounced it good. He then poured both glasses and left them alone.
"So," said Steed. "You're happy?"
"Very much so," said Emma.
Steed nodded. "I've been seeing so much of you recently...in the prints. I can't turn around at a news agents without seeing one of your articles on the cover of a magazine. You're revisionist look at the Battle of the Spanish Armada...stunning. Thirty years ahead of its time."
Emma smiled. "I took quite a lot of flack from my readers over that one," she commented. "But I stand by my conclusions..."
She sipped her wine.
"And you?" she asked.
"Oh, I'm happy. Everyone at the Ministry's chugging along quite nicely. It doesn't have quite the same...je ne sais quois, but..." he shrugged.
He sipped wine.
"Well," said Emma. "What should we do tonight?"
Steed gazed at her. Reached out and took her hand.
"One night a year?" he said.
She nodded, enjoying the warmth of her hand in his, the strength in his fingers, the look in his eyes. "One night a year."
"Then let's have dinner, and then go back to your place. The night is young."
London
Emma turned into the drive of her home, pulled the Lotus up just beside the rose bushes that bordered one side of the house.
She lifted out her overnight bag and carried it into the house.
"Peter, I'm home," she called.
"I heard the car," he told her, coming around the doorway and taking her in his arms for a kiss. "Did you have a good time?"
"Yes," said Emma. She took his hand in both of hers and snuggled her head against his shoulder as they walked into the living room.
"But I'm glad to be home."
Okay...this is a character study... any and all comments wanted... In character, out of character? Let me know...
And merry Christmas and a happy new year to you all!