To be trusted is a greater compliment than to be loved.
George MacDonald- The Marquis of Lossie
Canadian Consulate, Chicago, Illinois-Monday Morning,
Meg walked into the consulate, her lips drawn tight and her dark eyes troubled. Constable Turnbull saw the sinister expression on her face and picked up the ringing telephone without greeting her. Constable Fraser and his half-wolf, Diefenbaker, walked in behind her. He saw the glint of fear in Turnbull's light eyes and kept silent.
"Inspector Thatcher, you have a call on line one." The junior officer stood up straight, swallowing hard.
"Thank you, Constable." After hanging her umbrella on the coat tree she stepped quickly into her office. Unshed tears rolled down her cheeks as she picked up the handset. Meg knew who was on the other end before she heard his voice.
"Hello," She wiped the tears away, trying to stay strong.
"I understand, Jeremy, last night was, I was tired." Meg hadn't been tired. Four months of dating and it was their first night together. It hadn't gone as she'd hoped. The dysfunction she'd been living with since she was sixteen had reared it's ugly head. Meg thought she'd worked her way through it years ago. Stress at the consulate and anticipation had been her undoing.
"Have a good day, I'll talk to you later, bye." Meg hung up knowing that Jeremy wouldn't call back. They were over.
"His loss then." Meg thought to herself as she took a deep breath and banished her tears. A day's work at the consulate would take her mind off her problem.
Constable Benton Fraser sat at his desk working on his daily report on the typewriter. He hammered away quickly, his dextrous fingers typing ninety words a minute. Next would come the weekly report, due at the end of the day. Thankfully, it had been an uneventful week for the Mountie. Undercover Ray had been out with the flu for the last three days. Fraser had taken him lentil soup and made sure the fridge was stocked with microwave dinners. Ray thanked him then as politely as Ray ever was, ran the hovering Mountie off.
"Are you certain that's the way you spell 'surveillance' ?" Robert Fraser asked, peering over his son's shoulder. Ben put an O in the middle of the disputed word.
"Dad, how many times must I tell you not to pop in like that, it's disconcerting." Ben groused, pulling a bottle of correction fluid out of his desk drawer.
"What's the point of being a ghost if you can't pop in on people. No one else can see me, remember?" The apparition shook his head as he continued to peer over Ben's shoulder.
"You've also misspelled 'Sergeant'." The older Mountie pointed to the paper securely rolled around the typewriter.
"That's how Mrs. Sargent spells her name, Dad." Ben waved his finger away. "Don't you have somewhere else to be, Dad?" The younger Mountie turned to his father. Sometimes he wondered if his father would have been this annoying had they worked together when he was alive.
"No, nowhere at all, son."
Ben turned to give his father an exasperated look. The phone rang, interrupting the father-son stare down. Ben looked at the loud contraption.
"Ah, the Inspector, that's my cue to leave." The old man disappeared before Ben could answer. Confused, he answered the phone on the second ring.
"Constable Fraser, come to my office please." Inspector Thatcher hung up abruptly. With the report still in the typewriter and the correction fluid out, Ben scooted back from his desk to leave.
Meg paced the length of her desk, rethinking her decision. Taking a week's vacation on such short notice was extreme. She couldn't let her dysfunction rule her, she had to take time off to regroup and unwind. She couldn't with Constable Benton Fraser in sight and Turnbull in the building. One distracted her and the other frustrated her.
Fraser's quick knock on the door brought Meg back to the present.
"Come in." She called, uncrossing her arms and straightening her suit jacket. Fraser stepped through the door, his blue eyes scanning the office and landing on her. For a split second, Meg wondered if he could see her anxiety; if he could read her mind.
Ben took in Inspector Thatcher's pensive expression and the lack of any other official presence before coming to stand in his usual position before her desk. He met her gaze expectantly.
"Constable Fraser, I'm taking a week's vacation, for personal reasons. You will be responsible for maintaining the consulate in my absence. I've had Turnbull reschedule all the major consular events. It should be a fairly simple task to keep things ship shape around here. If you should need anything, you have my cell phone number, I expect you not to use it. Are there any questions?" She bit the inside of her lip to keep from fidgeting.
"No, Sir, enjoy your time off." To himself, Ben thought it curious that she would take a week off out of the blue. He knew she'd had a date the night before; he'd picked up her cocktail dress on Friday afternoon. From the crease between her brows and the way she bit at the inside of her bottom lip, he deduced that her absence wasn't a happy one. Trouble swirled in her dark eyes, a hint of tears on her cheeks.
"Make certain that the consulate is exactly the way I left it when I return on Monday morning." Meg wagged her finger at him, her tone sharp.
"Yes, Sir." A moment later Inspector Thatcher dismissed him. With his efficient stride, Ben was out the door before Meg thought to tell him one last bit of information.
"I'm taking the afternoon off." She stood framed in her office door, the morning sun casting a mellow gold around her. In her cream suit, she looked heavenly. Ben simply nodded his understanding before continuing to his office.
"That inspector of yours has something troubling her. I've seen that look before." Robert Fraser waylaid his son, starting the conversation as soon as he opened the office door.
"What look, Dad?" Ben asked to humor the ghost.
"It reminds me of the way my favorite sled dog looked after I took him to the veterinarian to be neutered." The old man stood with his hands behind his back, head tilted upward.
"What does that mean?" Fraser sat down at his typewriter, taking the tiny correction fluid brush out and dabbing at his error.
"I knew I should have had the birds and the bees talk with you instead your grandmother. She gave you a book, didn't she." Robert Fraser shook his head, his Stetson brim bobbing.
"I don't have time for riddles, Dad." Ben waved his father off, trying to distract himself from the sight of Inspector Thatcher, golden light streaming in around her, highlighting her slender frame.
"She's sexually frustrated, son. She needs someone who knows how to take charge, how to kiss her until she's breathless." The older Mountie came out with it bluntly.
"Dad!" Ben exclaimed incredulously.
"The truth will stand when the world's on fire, that's what your grandmother always said." Robert Fraser pointed one of his beefy fingers at the younger man, his light blue eyes shining devilishly.
"How do you know, Dad?" Ben set his correction fluid back in the desk drawer, keeping his voice low so as not to draw attention.
"It's amazing what you overhear when you're a ghost." The old man shrugged, examining a picture of Ottawa's skyline on the wall across from Ben's desk.
"Eavesdropping, Dad?" Ben shook his head, ignoring his father's previous admission.
"You never say anything interesting. You may as well be the one in limbo." Robert Fraser gestured with his hands, his light eyes sparkling. Ben groaned and began ignoring his father. ***