New York City, USA
October 2011
A white knight on his steed
With a satisfying thud, I close my text book on game theory.
"Two hours, George," I announce with a look at my phone's clock. "We've earned a break, don't you think?"
Midterms are looming large and after the mess of last semester, I resolved to do better this time. It involves a lot more studying and a lot less fun, but I suppose that is the nature of college when taken seriously. And while I still much prefer the fun times, I am not one to break my word. I promised Dad and I promised myself that I'd work harder this time and therefore, I do – even if a large part of that is out of sheer stubbornness. I hate admitting that I got it wrong.
George yawns at me.
"Hey, you lazy bum," I laugh. "A little bit of activity, if you will. You didn't earn your break yet, methinks."
But George just considers me dispassionately, clearly of the opinion that he did more than enough by mentally supporting me through my study session. Besides, we humans just never appreciate how tiring it can be to take a nap. Positively draining.
Stretching out my legs in front of me, I pick up my phone again, checking for new messages. There's one from Chelsea, confirming our library date for Wednesday, and one from Nia inviting me to a bowling outing with some fellow students on Friday evening. Mum simply asks how I am and Joy wrote to enquire when I plan to pick up the children for our trip to the zoo on Sunday. (We watched Madagascar some weeks ago. Izzie is a great fan of zebra Marty, while Jake is more partial to the penguins and I have a lingering fondness for Melman, the hypochondriac giraffe.)
There's no message from Ken, but then, I didn't really expect one. He told me he'd be busy today and anyway, we're scheduled to talk this evening. And while a phone call can never be enough, it's all we've got right now. (At least they got the secure video call thing going, which is certainly an improvement.)
I still miss him like crazy, of course. It was more bearable when I was in Halifax, because Halifax never feels permanent these days, and when the entire family convened on the Island, I was pretty busy and thus, distracted the entire time. It was a lovely time, too (excepting a trip down to Avonlea to visit Aunt Mary Maria, who took over Grandfather John and Grandmother Marilla's house for her annual summer visit), so I didn't get much time to miss Ken.
It's been different since my return to New York. He came for a visit on the weekend before classes began and while the rest of the country celebrated Labor Day, we were holed up in my Shoebox, not letting anyone intrude into our togetherness, save for an afternoon coffee chat with Mrs Weisz. But it's been over a month since he left again and this time, I'm feeling his absence much more acutely.
My life is keeping me plenty busy, so it's not like I sit around moping and pining for him all day. And, rationally speaking, I know that it's primarily the fact that he is gone that enables me to spend the necessary amount of time on my studies, my work and the people important to me. Not having at least every other night reserved for Ken means that I suddenly have much more time to dispense on the other aspects of my life.
Still, I miss him. I miss him something awful.
Somehow, over the course of the last semester, I got so used to having him around, that my apartment now feels horribly empty when it's just George and me in it. Perhaps that's why it only really hit home when I came back, that, for the next eight or so months, we'll have to do with calls and messages and maybe the occasional visit. (And who knows what happens after that anyway.) Ken had become part of the New York side of my life and without him, that side feels somehow not complete anymore.
With a sigh, I push the book away and stand up. Just five minutes ago, I was so pleased at a study session well spent, but just like that, I've worked myself into a funk again.
Over on the bed, George rolls himself on his back, stretching all four paws into the air. (It's deceptive though. He only wants you to believe that he wants his belly scratched. In reality, he wants to maul any hand that's foolish enough to try.)
Letting my gaze drift over to the window, I quickly assess the weather. It's not quite an Indian summer, but it's looking dry and reasonably pleasant.
"What do you say, George? Shall we go for a run before Mrs Weisz expects us for coffee?" I ask the cat. The only thing I have left on my agenda for tonight is a last read through of an essay that compares Mary Wollstonecraft's work with that of her daughter, Mary Shelley. It's mostly finished though, and not due until next week anyway, so there's nothing keeping me from taking a break.
George rolls himself on his side again, stretching out his front paws luxuriously.
"Alright," I concede with a smile. "No run for you."
He'll probably go on the prowl again tonight, but right now, he looks like not even an earthquake could dislodge him from the bed. Maybe especially not an earthquake.
Giving up on my, admittedly never promising attempt at rousing the cat, I grab my workout clothes instead, exchanging my slouchy sweatpants for a pair of leggings and putting on a sports bra. I have just reached for a t-shirt, when there's a loud knock at the door.
"Huh? Are you expecting anyone, George?" I enquire, but George just blinks at me, clearly very bored, and refrains from answering.
T-shirt in hand, I walk over to peer through the spyhole – and immediately rip open the door, my half-dressed state quite forgotten.
"Hello, my love," greets Ken and grins at me.
And I'd be lying if I claimed I didn't squeal at the sight of him, because I totally do. I also throw my arms around his neck and he, laughing, catches me, wraps his arms around my waist and lifts me off my feet for a moment.
"What are you doing here?" I ask, strangely breathless, once I'm back on my feet. I keep my arms clasped tightly around him though. I'm not letting him go this easily.
"Seeing you," he answers, outwardly earnest, but with mischief in his eyes. "I missed you, so I came to see you."
"Do be serious!" I chide, slapping his shoulder. "I know you're here to see me. But why didn't you tell me you'd be coming?"
"I wanted to surprise you." And isn't he pleased at having pulled it off? His expression, at least, is mighty smug.
I hum appreciatively, letting my thumb brush over the back of his neck. "Who let you into the house?"
"Mrs Weisz. Who else?" is his easy answer. One of his hands wanders upwards, splaying out to cover my back and I shiver slightly as his skin meets my own.
My brain is slightly distracted by the closeness of him, but luckily, my mouth can usually be relied upon to keep talking, even unsupervised. "And how many cups of coffee did she foist on you before allowing you to come upstairs?"
Ken laughs, a soft rumble in his chest. "None at all. I'm also under strict orders to inform you that you're forbidden from coming to see her until after I'm gone."
"Looks like those romance novels were educational after all," I reply, feeling pleased when that draws another laugh from him.
Closing my hands around the lapels of his coat, I pull him with me as I move backwards into the apartment. The door falls shut behind him with a most satisfying sound. Immediately, I curl myself closer against him, turning my face upwards for a kiss and he's only too willing to oblige.
After that, things look to be moving in a most welcome direction, until Ken suddenly pulls away, raising his head away from mine. His voice, as he speaks, sounds forcibly controlled. "No. Don't."
Raising both eyebrows at him, I slowly draw my hands away from where they had reached his belt buckle. I'm no fool and he's no stranger to me. Whatever his mouth his saying, no other part of his body is backing it up.
Seemingly realising that he's giving off rather mixed signals, Ken shakes his head with a rueful smile. "That's not what I meant."
Yeah. I didn't think he meant it either.
Thus encouraged, I lean forward again, my hands sliding over his chest. As he keeps his head unbend, I slowly start kissing my way along his jaw.
He lets go of a shuddering breath. "Keep doing that and I'm going to carry you over to that bed and have my way with you." A beat. "If we make it to the bed at all."
"Well, who's complaining?" I purr.
(Because really, wasn't that the plan all along?)
Taking a deep breath, Ken reaches for my hands, stilling their movements. "Please believe me when I say that I have every intention to ravish you before this evening is over –," he begins.
I pull back abruptly, drawing my hands out from underneath his. "Ravish?" I interrupt, feeling a giggle rise within me. "Looks like someone has been reading Mrs Weisz's romance novels on the sly!"
"But," Ken continues pointedly, ignoring my remark, "before that, we're going on a date."
That gets my attention.
"A date?" I repeat, eyeing him with something between wariness and disbelief.
"A date," he confirms with a smile.
"Like, a real one?" I ask slowly. "Out in the open? Someplace where normal people go to?"
Ken laughs. "I hope so, at least."
I frown, thinking this over. "But isn't it dangerous? I mean, couldn't it get us discovered?"
"If we're being technical, everything we do together could get us discovered," answers Ken with a shrug. "But I have a most cunning plan that should, ideally, allow us to have that date without anyone being the wiser."
"A most cunning plan, yes?" I tease. "And to what do I owe the honour?"
"Why, it's our first year anniversary today. Don't tell me you forgot?" He makes quite a show of appearing wounded, but beneath that, I can see he's actually very pleased at having upped me.
Thus, I pointedly turn my Shirley nose up at him. "I'll have you know that our anniversary isn't until December."
"Ah, that kind of anniversary. Yes, that's in December," agrees Ken, ducking away with a grin when I swat at him for the emphasis he put on the that.
Ignoring the dirty look I give him, he folds my hands into his own, and declares, "This fine day, exactly a year ago, was when I first beheld your lovely face."
Oh yes. He most definitely stole Mrs. Weisz's romance novels!
"Pretty words won't get you anywhere," I inform Ken haughtily. "I, too, have read the occasional novel and Jane Austen taught me long ago never to trust the man doling out practiced flattery."
"Jane Austen, huh?" he asks, eyes shining in amusement. "So that makes me…?"
I give an elaborate shrug. "Oh, she's got several sweet-talking, two-faced men in her works, doesn't she? Wickham may be being chief among them."
"Wickham?" Now he's laughing outright. "You wound me, Rilla!"
"You do share a propensity for nicely worded compliments," I point out, feeling quite reasonable. "And, I mean, who else would you claim to be? Surely not Darcy?"
"Probably not," concedes Ken, chuckling. "Though your stubbornness would mark you out as a decent Elizabeth."
Cocking my head to the side, I look at him challengingly. "Trying to show me you can do insults as well as compliments, are you?"
"Wouldn't dream of it," is his reply, as quick as it's obviously insincere. "However, I do think there ought to be a better fit out there for me than Wickham or Darcy. How about… Frederick Wentworth?"
He knows, of course, that Persuasion is my favourite among Austen's work.
"Frederick Wentworth," I declare primly, "stands head and shoulders above you and I will accept no argument on the matter. Instead, won't you tell me where you're taking me for that anniversary date of ours, so I can dress accordingly?"
Ken grins, but accepts my words by slightly inclining his head. "We're not going anywhere fancy, so you don't have to dress up." Then, with a look at my sports bra, "Though you might like to put on a shirt."
"If someone had told me you'd come here today to tell me to put on more clothes…" I mutter, letting the sentence hang unfinished, as I turn towards my wardrobe.
"I promise to assist you in taking them all off later on," comes Ken's cheeky response, but I choose to make a point to ignore it, not even turning to look at him. Behind me, I can hear him laughing quietly.
Not wanting to complicate matters, I simply grab an oversized grey knit pullover to go over my leggings and slip my feet into a pair of well-worn sneakers. My only 'adornment' is my gold circle necklace that I've taken to wearing almost daily. But he said not to dress up, didn't he?
Turning back around, I mean to ask Ken where, exactly, he plans to take me, but I forget the words the moment I see him. He looked perfectly normal before – just like himself – but now, I'm staring at a man with unruly blonde hair beneath a dark baseball cap, wearing a pair of prominent black-rimmed glasses.
For a moment, I just stare. Ken beams at me. "Don't you like my disguise?"
I blink. Then blink again.
"The Red Sox, yes? In New York? Mighty brave of you," I finally declare, raising both eyebrows sceptically at the cap he's wearing.
Ken frowns. "What do you mean?"
He looks genuinely confused and I have to supress a smile. "Nothing, really. Nothing at all."
As expected, this doesn't do anything to clear up his confusion, but when he opens his mouth to ask, I lay a finger against his lips to silence him. (Eric, the boyfriend who preceded Tristan, was a baseball fan and God knows, I've spent enough of my time on the sport back when I was with him – without ever getting the hang of the rules, mind. Either way, I don't intend to start talking about it now.)
"Come on. Let's go," I suggest instead, smiling at Ken and nodding towards the door.
Not that he looks convinced, but with a shrug, he drops the subject, instead reaching out to hold open the door for me. Grabbing my bag and jacket, I just mean to leave when, following a sudden impulse, I quickly dart back to the bed, pull off Mrs Lynde's quilt and toss it into a corner. (George, thus dislodged, glowers at me most frightfully.) When I look back at Ken, I can see him grinning knowingly. He's fully aware of my aversion to having that quilt on the bed when there's any ravishing going on.
"Pays to be prepared," I inform him nonchalantly, but make a point to lightly brush against him as I pass.
As we walk down the stairs side by side, I can't help looking over at him every three steps or so. "Where did you get that wig anyway?" I finally ask, eyeing his unfamiliar flaxen hair.
Ken grins widely. "I brought it with me. It is part of my most cunning plan. Do you like it?"
"Very fetching," I deadpan.
"Anything to appeal to you, my most ardently beloved," he declares grandly. It's silly, but it makes me laugh anyway.
"Careful," I warn as I push open the front door. "Continue talking like that and I will be severely disappointed if there's no white steed waiting for us outside."
"No steed, white or otherwise, I'm afraid. But I do have a rather comfortable car for us," answers Ken. Laying a hand on the small of my back, he steers me towards a dark car parked on the curb. It's nothing overly fancy, but looks a bit shinier than the various cars his PPOs used to ferry me around the city last spring.
Speaking of his PPOs, there's no-one in sight, but I know better than to expect them to not be there. And sure enough, after we've gotten into the car and Ken has started driving, two other cars pull up, one getting in front of us, the other one making up the rear.
"Where are we going?" I ask, settling more comfortably into my seat. Casting a hopeful eye over the dashboard, I spy, to my delight, the button to make the seat heat up, and quickly jab at it.
Ken throws me a quick glance as he stops the car at a traffic light. "There's a blanket on the backseat, if you want."
Turning quickly I do indeed see a woollen blanket lying folded on the seat behind me. "What's this about?" I ask, somewhat warily, even as I contort myself to reach backwards. "Because I'll have you know that the times when I could still be persuaded to agree to a make out-session on the backseat of a car are long past."
"Tempting, but no, that's not part of my most cunning plan," replies Ken with a laugh, while getting the car moving again. Then, after a moment of thought, he adds pensively, "I don't think I've ever made out with anyone on the backseat of a car."
"Well, don't add it to your bucket list," I retort drily. "Or else, find yourself a new girlfriend. Because there's a reason I foreswore backseats many years ago."
"Not comfortable?" he teases, to which I only answer with my most frightful grimace, before pulling the blanket tighter around my shoulders.
The car comes to a temporary halt on a busy street and Ken takes the moment to lean over and peck my cheek. "No making out on backseats," he promises, though still clearly amused.
"That's what I said," I remind him, lest he gets it into his head that he's making the rules here. "But I suppose you're still not telling me where we're going?"
"No. You'll have to wait and see," he answers cheerfully.
Pushing my lower lip forward in a pout, I try to get him to talk, but when he just laughs, I grudgingly give in. I suppose I will see it eventually.
After a couple of minutes of driving in comfortable silence, Ken leans forward and fiddles with the buttons of the audio system and a moment later, music fills the car. Chris Rea's 'Road to Hell'.
"Now I'm worried," I observe, raising both eyebrows at him. Looking past him out the window I can see the iconic sight of Brooklyn Bridge to our left, as we cross the East River via the far less remarkable Manhattan Bridge.
"That I'm taking you down a road to hell?" asks Ken with a smile.
"More like, that you already took me down one," I mutter audibly, making him laugh.
Reaching out, he quickly brushes his fingertips over my cheek. "I'd never," he promises and, well, who am I not to trust him?
To the sound of sixties music, we drive onwards, crossing Lower Manhattan and disappearing into Holland Tunnel to reach New Jersey. As we drive through the various satellite towns and municipalities that have amassed around New York City, I tell Ken about college, about what my families and friends are up to and about the usual madness at work. When, after almost an hour, the landscape slowly becomes more rural, houses giving way to trees, he takes up the thread of conversation, talking about his internship with the British government (which, apart from giving him an insight into how parliament and various agencies work, is also set to include some weeks with the intelligence services early next year, which he is quite excited about). Not all of this is news to me, as, I am sure, part of what I tell him isn't unfamiliar to him either, but regardless of how well we keep each other informed via calls and messages, it's just different to, once more, be able to look at him as we talk. (Even if the blonde wig continues to throw me.)
Another twenty or so minutes pass and Ken has just moved on to telling me about the recalcitrant horse his sister is apparently trying to train towards greatness. Dusk is quickly falling, with only our headlights and those of the accompanying two cars cutting swathes of light through the approaching darkness.
"Ken," I interrupt his tale quite suddenly, looking out of the window at the dense forest surrounding the road we're on. "Just so we're sure… you're not using this first anniversary as an excuse to finally dispose of my body in some isolated forest, are you?"
(Because let's be honest, nothing good ever came of entering a spooky forest in any fairy tale that was ever told.)
"Certainly not. I promised you incarceration in The Tower, didn't I?" he replies, chuckling. "And I pride myself in keeping my promises."
"Hmm," I make sceptically. "Just checking, you know?"
"Certainly," he agrees amiably. After a moment, he adds, more sincerely now, "We're almost there. And far from involving your murder, I hope you will like it."
And indeed, just moments later, the car in front of us turns right into what looks like a driveway, with Ken following suit. It takes me a moment to figure it out, but when I see the couple of dozen cars, loosely lined up in rows, all facing a large screen, I finally realise where he took me.
"A drive-in theatre!"
Parking our car in one of the backrows, Ken turns towards me with a questioning smile. "Do you like it?"
"It's brilliant!" I declare, beaming at him.
And it is. It's a most cunning plan, indeed. We could never have gone to a normal cinema for fear of discovery, but here, in our own car, we should be alright.
There's distinct relief in Ken's expression and I make sure to reward his careful planning with a kiss. (Which doesn't qualify as a make out-session on either back or front seat, but is certainly a proper kiss. Kissing him, there's no doubt about it, is also something I've dearly missed.)
When I pull back after a reasonable amount of time, I dimly register one of the PPO's cars having parked in the row behind us, two or three spots to the left. Close enough to be able to intervene, yet far enough to give us the impression of privacy. (I know enough to realise that that's all we're ever going to get.) The other car is nowhere to be seen, probably having stopped at the entrance, or else, prowling around in the general vicinity.
"It's been ages since I've been to a drive-in theatre," I tell Ken happily. "There's one about an hour's drive from Halifax, where Dad took me and Shirley once. I remember that we argued for the entire drive about who would sit in front during the movie. Dad mostly just ignored it, probably because he was of the opinion that we were old enough to work out our differences on our own. My parents, you must know, were big on letting us work it out on our own. Anyway, I pulled the age card on Shirley and he ended up kicking my seat the entire time, in retaliation."
"Fun times," Ken deadpans, making me laugh.
"They were," I insist. "Especially because I got back at him by hiding his stuffed turtle for three days straight. He was maybe eight or nine and the lack of Torty wasn't conducive to his sleep."
Turning his head to look at me, Ken frowns in confusion. "Torty? But a turtle isn't a tortoise."
"So says Jake," I agree. "But when Shirley named the said stuffed turtle at four, he was not yet aware of reptilian nuances. He wasn't always brilliant."
Ken reaches out to rub my knee. I've complained to him about my frightfully clever siblings far too often for him not to understand what I meant by that remark.
"Anyway," I continue brightly, "we also got popcorn and Shirley ate so much that he vomited out of the car window on the way back."
"Karma," points out Ken.
I nod eagerly. "Precisely. And in memory of this event, I shall now get us popcorn as well. Do you want anything else?"
"Just get whatever you like." Saying it, Ken reaches inside his coat and pulls out a wallet that, when he opens it, reveals a collection of plastic cards.
Before he can give me one of them, I reach out to flip it shut again. "I'm a modern woman and I am perfectly able to pay for myself," I inform him. "You paid for tickets – or, you know, made your henchmen pay for them, which is the same thing – so I will pay for snacks. Equality and all that. My Grandma Bertha, as you must know, is big on equality."
"And we wouldn't want to go against the opinions of Grandma Bertha," agrees Ken, smiling.
"Not at all." Leaning forward, I steal the briefest of kisses, before slipping out of the car and making my way over towards the snack booth. As I walk past the PPO's car, I have a sudden idea and, following an impulse, stop to knock against the window on the driver's side.
A moment, but then the window lowers, revealing, to my delight, Hanson.
"Can we help you with anything?" he asks, returning the smile I give him.
"You could tell me which snacks you want," I answer. "My treat."
(I pulled a double shift at work last week. I reckon I can splurge a bit.)
At first, there's surprise registering in his eyes, but then he nods slowly, his smile deepening. Peering past Hanson, I see another man on the passenger seat and a third sitting in the back. I haven't seen either before, and while the one on the passenger side speaks with a distinct English accent, the other one has a Southern drawl that identifies him as one of the American agents that the US government attaches to Ken's security detail whenever he's here.
Having taken their order, I turn towards the snack booth again, but have only taken two or three steps before I hear a car door being shut behind me. Just moments later, Hanson appears by my side. "I thought you might like someone to help you carry all that stuff," he replies to my questioning look.
"That would be appreciated," I agree with a grateful smile.
We take a couple of steps, before I observe, partly to myself, "Quite an operation just to go see a movie."
"I think he wanted to do something special for you," Hanson answers carefully. "He's missed you."
"Really?" I ask. Then, annoyed at the surprise in my voice, I quickly add, more sternly, "I mean, I should hope so!"
"Yes, really," answers Hanson, chuckling quietly. "I can tell. I've been part of his team for a couple of years now and you learn a bit about the people you're watching in such a long time. And he has truly missed you."
"Makes two of us," I sigh. A beat, before I shake off the melancholy feeling already encroaching upon me at the thought of soon having to let Ken go again. Instead, I nod towards the screen and ask, "Do you know which movie they're showing?"
An amused smile appears on Hanson's face as he answers, "Didn't he tell you? It's his idea of a joke, I'd say, though it could also be just coincidence. They're playing Roman Holiday. The one with Audrey Hepburn."
Yes, that would be Ken's idea of a joke.
The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Daydream Believer' (written by John Stewart, released by The Monkees in 1967).
To wow:
I was really curious to see people's different reactions to the last chapter, because I thought some would be impatient with Rilla and others would sympathise with her. It seems to have come true, too, which is great! I love it when my characters draw out different reactions, depending on who is sitting on the other side of the screen :).
To me, personally, both Grandma Bertha and Rilla are right about some parts and wrong about others. Grandma speaks many a true word and offers some sound opinions, but is quite blunt about it. (I also think she's wrong to knock the phone dates, because that's a practical way to keep a long-distance relationship going.) Rilla is acting somewhat stroppily at times, but she's had a lot of people weigh in (unasked) on her relationship, so by now, she's partly just annoyed that no-one can just be happy for her.
You're certainly right in saying that the impact of her relationship still hasn't fully sunk in yet. She has a better idea of it than she did in the beginning, but the fact that they continue to hide keeps her from evaluating the potential consequences. But the Big Reveal is just around the corner, so she will have to face them soon enough!
Hippie Cecilia is a lot to deal with. I'm having fun with her, but she's a handful. Also, fairly complex. She tried to live a life she was unsuited to and decided she couldn't do it anymore - but in doing so, left her children. She does have an insight in what it is like to try to change yourself to fit a relationship though, which could become interesting later on.
You should believe me ;). The left hind paw is very sacred! No human has ever successfully touched it before. And whoever tried, had to suffer the consequences. (Sorry. Cat talk.)