1 Please see info and disclaimers at the heading of Chapter One. Thanks
for the great feedback so far! I promise more action/adventure romance to
come.
2
3 The Trouble with Bach
Chatper Two
What a relief Istanbul had been. No hidden agendas, no snags, no unforeseen obstacles. A truly cut and dried dash and grab operation. If it wasn't for the fact that she was working for SD-6, Sydney could almost feel good in knowing that she had done her job so well. As it was, at least the CIA was getting some information that might prove useful down the road.
Back in the comfort of her apartment, she folded her legs under her on the sofa and snacked straight out of a box of crackers. Her favorite sweats, rolled up at the ankles and an old college t-shirt sure were a lot more comfortable than the sex siren costume she'd had to don at the embassy party in Istanbul. The juxtaposition of her two selves was completely idiotic. The aristocrat she'd snuggled up to while obtaining the security code would not likely even offer her the time of day if he stumbled across her now.
"You look comfortable," Francie said, as she secured a diamond earring.
A warm smile crossed Syd's face. "I am, you know. I really am. *This* is what it's all about. Cheez-it's and a good movie."
"I think you're right. Maybe I'll skip this dinner with Charlie's parents and stay here with you."
"What? And waste that totally classic look you've got going? How could any parent not beg you to marry their son after seeing this ensemble?" Sydney teased her, but in truth her friend really did look every part of the lawyer's wife.
"Oh," Francie suddenly remembered something. "Did you happen to still have that brochure the wedding planner gave us? The one with the picture of the cake we picked?"
Sydney reached to the floor next to the sofa and grabbed her purse. When she opened it to retrieve the brochure, she also grabbed the envelope Vaughn had dropped her. She'd been in such a hurry to finish packing and catch her flight she'd forgotten about it.
"Here you go," Sydney said, now suddenly preoccupied. "I'm sure your mother in law will love it."
"You just got back and I'm leaving you," Francie pouted. "Maybe I should stay."
"You're looking for excuses." Sydney shooed her away playfully. "Now go before you keep them waiting. You're gorgeous," she called after her as Francie headed out.
The moment she heard the click of the door lock, she ran her fingernail under the lip of the envelope and pulled the contents free. A ticket. La Traviata at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. It was dated for Friday night, tomorrow, and there was only one. A small note was attached. Sydney opened it and stared at the long narrow strokes of Michael Vaughn's handwriting. How strange to see something hand-written. Their lives were filled with non-descriptive text…but this note was intimate, it was him.
It read:
Bach was an impossibility…I've been known for my connections, but even I couldn't score a ticket to that concert. When did Bach become the grown- up's NSYNC? Anyway, I thought this might be a suitable substitute. It was always a favorite of my mother's and though the hockey player in me hates to admit, mine as well. Please go, you deserve something elegant.
It was signed simply with a "V".
He'd bought her a ticket to the opera. She didn't know if it was completely depressing, the thought of going alone, or the sweetest gesture anyone had ever made to her. He wanted her to have something elegant. It was his way of telling her she was normal.
She would go. How could she not?
She held the ticket up to her nose, as if it still held the scent of him. It was impossible, but she could swear she could detect the faint smell of his cologne and Ivory soap. Chalking it up to her trained intelligence nose, she settled in for her evening of lazy television watching.
Sydney scanned the channels, flipping by each at the speed of light. She was skilled to spot something interesting at a mere glance; the art of scanning the television dial was not an exception. Nope… no Breakfast at Tiffany's tonight.
Just as she settled on a rerun of Charlie's Angels, the phone rang. Her heart jumped. Please let it be a wrong number she thought. Wrong numbers had recently taken on a whole new meaning.
"Hello?"
"How was your trip?"
"What?" She was just about to ask, 'Vaughn, is that you', when she remembered the danger of wiretaps. "Oh…hi," she smiled widely and wondered if it transferred through the telephone line. "My trip was boring. I'm glad to be home."
"How are you feeling? I mean…I know you were a little down the last time we talked." He was playing the part of a concerned friend.
"I'm feeling suddenly much better," she said, again holding the ticket up just under her nose, then for just a split second against her lips. "I just got the greatest gift from a dear friend."
"Did you?" He teased, "Should I be jealous?"
"No," she said a bit sadly, unconsciously wrapping the slack of phone wire around her finger. "It's a wonderful gift, but unfortunately I'll be using it alone."
"Maybe you could tell me about it," he suggested, "share it."
"Maybe I will," she agreed. "What are you doing calling me at 10 p.m. on a Thursday night for anyway? Don't you have some place wildly exciting to be?"
"Do I strike you as the kind of guy who has somewhere wildly exciting to be on a Thursday night?"
She laughed out loud. "No, I guess you don't."
"I'm was just watching TV… hanging out in my favorite sweats and wondering what my favorite banker was up to this evening."
"Talk about irony. I'm doing the exact same thing, minus the banker part."
Somehow the image of Vaughn sitting at home in his comfortable clothes was very seductive. Seductive? Did she just say Vaughn was seductive? It wasn't possible. She was thinking of him in terms of her handler, maybe even a good friend, but seductive?
"Turn on Channel 36," he suggested.
She aimed her remote at the television and pressed in the appropriate digits. Nick at Night, she knew the channel well. "What is it?" she asked, but recognized the old rerun of Bewitched right away.
"I used to love this show when I was a kid," he said. "Something about Samantha Stevens…man, was she sexy. Every boy in school was suddenly very interested in witchcraft and Harry Potter wasn't even a gleam in an author's eye."
"I used to watch this every day after school. Mom would have cookies and milk waiting and we'd tune in while she put dinner in the oven for Dad." Sydney caught herself. Good memories about her parents seemed like a huge betrayal of something, someone… Vaughn perhaps, and what had been taken away from him. "I'm sorry," she added, her voice filled with grief.
"Sydney," he said, in complete sympathy. "That's a nice memory. You should hang on to it. Besides, I stopped on this channel because she reminds me of you."
"Of me?" Did Vaughn just tell her in an around about way that he thought she was sexy? Naw, it couldn't be. Vaughn was her handler, her friend, he didn't think of her that way.
"Yeah," he gave a small snicker. "You're the only other one I know who can get out of impossible circumstances just by wiggling your nose."
She let out the breath she was holding. "Yeah, um, it usually takes a bit more than nose wiggling."
"You make it seem that simple," he said, with a heavy dose of sincerity in his voice.
"Samantha didn't have a guardian angel."
"Well," he said, uncomfortable with her praise, "I think I'm going to let you get to sleep. You must be exhausted."
"I'm glad you called." And she was. It was so comforting to think that she might be able to think of him in terms of more than just a voice on the other end of an earpiece. Though Francie and Will were good friends, no other person on the planet could relate to her the way Vaughn could. He was the only one who knew her for everything she was and everything she fought her heart and soul to change. "Goodnight…my friend."
"Goodnight, Sydney. Sleep well."
***
She stared at her reflection in the mirror and had to admit, she looked pretty, not sexy, not vivacious, not dangerous, simply pretty. It was so good to dress for something and not have to worry about where she was going to hide the mic or the key or the decoder. As she brushed on a final stroke of blush, she heard a familiar voice in the living room.
"Hey, Syd," Will yelled, noticing the bathroom door ajar. "I thought I'd drop by and see if you were up for a few drinks at Cavanaugh's tonight."
She stepped through the doorway and his jaw dropped. She wore a dazzling red dress tied daintily around her neck which fell perfectly straight just to the tips of her toes, which stuck out of matching strappy pumps.
"Wow," he breathed.
"Thanks," she blushed and fidgeted nervously under his scrutiny. "What were you saying? I couldn't hear you in there."
"I was going to see if you wanted to hit the pub, but I think you might be a bit overdressed."
"I'm—"
"Where are you going" he interrupted.
"The opera."
"I didn't know you liked opera," he said, taking a perch on the dining room table. "Who are you going with? Francie?"
"Um..no, I'm going alone actually."
"Alone. You're going alone to the opera?" He scratched his head. "Why?"
"Because I wanted to go and do something just for me." She walked over to the table and grabbed her small red clutch purse. "I know it seems odd, but for me it's just right. You probably don't understand."
"You're right," he said, standing to meet her, just inches away. "I don't. Why didn't you tell me, I would have gone with you?"
She held up her ticket. "Just one ticket. And like I said, I feel like doing this on my own. You understand."
"Sure." But he didn't understand. He watched as she made her way across the room, stopping to pick up a black wrap on her way to the door. "I guess I'll let myself out then."
"Goodnight, Will." She felt bad for leaving him behind. "Maybe we could try for the pub tomorrow night?"
He nodded and waved her off, a bit dejected. "Enjoy the opera, Syd."
***
The valet showed her to her seat. She couldn't have picked a better one for herself. Vaughn, being an intelligence man knew that the end of the row would have been her first choice and the view was perfect. She could see everyone around her and more importantly tonight she could see every square inch of the stage.
Verdi's tale of the consumptive Violetta and her paramour Alfredo played out before her like a bittersweet reminder of mistaken identities and misunderstandings. As complex and outrageous as their story was, Sydney couldn't help but realize that her own life would make the tragic opera pale in comparison.
As the final Act commenced, Sydney watched as a distraught Alfredo begs Violetta to forgive him for doubting her and for almost taking the life of Douphol in his jealousy. He pleads with her to accept him back into her life. Sydney couldn't help but wonder if there wasn't a time when her mother might have renounced her misguided ways and begged her father for the same second chance. Tears streamed down her face as the lover's embrace. She reached within the small red purse to find a tissue, but comes up empty handed.
Just then, out of the corner of her eye she noticed a flash of movement just behind her. She turned with slight trepidation, but quickly realized that it was simply a kind soul offering use of a crisp, white handkerchief. She turned slightly to accept the kindness of the stranger and was stunned to see the handsome face of Michael Vaughn. She had been so wrapped up in the beauty of Verdi's libretto she did not even sense his presence. Had he been seated there all along? Of course, it was his way of enjoying life's personal freedoms with her…only apart.
He smiled as she accepted his gesture, dabbing gently at her eyes. As Violetta fell lifeless at the feet of Alfredo, Sydney's hand fell to the side of her chair and reached hesitantly back. In seconds it was met and held tenderly by her handler, her friend…by Michael.
They stayed there like that, their arms stretched across the aisle between them, holding fast to something that was impossible. Watching the final moments of Violetta, as her demons are finally put to rest. Perhaps it was time for Sydney to do the same. Maybe with a hand to hold, it just might be possible.
(More to come…)
2
3 The Trouble with Bach
Chatper Two
What a relief Istanbul had been. No hidden agendas, no snags, no unforeseen obstacles. A truly cut and dried dash and grab operation. If it wasn't for the fact that she was working for SD-6, Sydney could almost feel good in knowing that she had done her job so well. As it was, at least the CIA was getting some information that might prove useful down the road.
Back in the comfort of her apartment, she folded her legs under her on the sofa and snacked straight out of a box of crackers. Her favorite sweats, rolled up at the ankles and an old college t-shirt sure were a lot more comfortable than the sex siren costume she'd had to don at the embassy party in Istanbul. The juxtaposition of her two selves was completely idiotic. The aristocrat she'd snuggled up to while obtaining the security code would not likely even offer her the time of day if he stumbled across her now.
"You look comfortable," Francie said, as she secured a diamond earring.
A warm smile crossed Syd's face. "I am, you know. I really am. *This* is what it's all about. Cheez-it's and a good movie."
"I think you're right. Maybe I'll skip this dinner with Charlie's parents and stay here with you."
"What? And waste that totally classic look you've got going? How could any parent not beg you to marry their son after seeing this ensemble?" Sydney teased her, but in truth her friend really did look every part of the lawyer's wife.
"Oh," Francie suddenly remembered something. "Did you happen to still have that brochure the wedding planner gave us? The one with the picture of the cake we picked?"
Sydney reached to the floor next to the sofa and grabbed her purse. When she opened it to retrieve the brochure, she also grabbed the envelope Vaughn had dropped her. She'd been in such a hurry to finish packing and catch her flight she'd forgotten about it.
"Here you go," Sydney said, now suddenly preoccupied. "I'm sure your mother in law will love it."
"You just got back and I'm leaving you," Francie pouted. "Maybe I should stay."
"You're looking for excuses." Sydney shooed her away playfully. "Now go before you keep them waiting. You're gorgeous," she called after her as Francie headed out.
The moment she heard the click of the door lock, she ran her fingernail under the lip of the envelope and pulled the contents free. A ticket. La Traviata at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. It was dated for Friday night, tomorrow, and there was only one. A small note was attached. Sydney opened it and stared at the long narrow strokes of Michael Vaughn's handwriting. How strange to see something hand-written. Their lives were filled with non-descriptive text…but this note was intimate, it was him.
It read:
Bach was an impossibility…I've been known for my connections, but even I couldn't score a ticket to that concert. When did Bach become the grown- up's NSYNC? Anyway, I thought this might be a suitable substitute. It was always a favorite of my mother's and though the hockey player in me hates to admit, mine as well. Please go, you deserve something elegant.
It was signed simply with a "V".
He'd bought her a ticket to the opera. She didn't know if it was completely depressing, the thought of going alone, or the sweetest gesture anyone had ever made to her. He wanted her to have something elegant. It was his way of telling her she was normal.
She would go. How could she not?
She held the ticket up to her nose, as if it still held the scent of him. It was impossible, but she could swear she could detect the faint smell of his cologne and Ivory soap. Chalking it up to her trained intelligence nose, she settled in for her evening of lazy television watching.
Sydney scanned the channels, flipping by each at the speed of light. She was skilled to spot something interesting at a mere glance; the art of scanning the television dial was not an exception. Nope… no Breakfast at Tiffany's tonight.
Just as she settled on a rerun of Charlie's Angels, the phone rang. Her heart jumped. Please let it be a wrong number she thought. Wrong numbers had recently taken on a whole new meaning.
"Hello?"
"How was your trip?"
"What?" She was just about to ask, 'Vaughn, is that you', when she remembered the danger of wiretaps. "Oh…hi," she smiled widely and wondered if it transferred through the telephone line. "My trip was boring. I'm glad to be home."
"How are you feeling? I mean…I know you were a little down the last time we talked." He was playing the part of a concerned friend.
"I'm feeling suddenly much better," she said, again holding the ticket up just under her nose, then for just a split second against her lips. "I just got the greatest gift from a dear friend."
"Did you?" He teased, "Should I be jealous?"
"No," she said a bit sadly, unconsciously wrapping the slack of phone wire around her finger. "It's a wonderful gift, but unfortunately I'll be using it alone."
"Maybe you could tell me about it," he suggested, "share it."
"Maybe I will," she agreed. "What are you doing calling me at 10 p.m. on a Thursday night for anyway? Don't you have some place wildly exciting to be?"
"Do I strike you as the kind of guy who has somewhere wildly exciting to be on a Thursday night?"
She laughed out loud. "No, I guess you don't."
"I'm was just watching TV… hanging out in my favorite sweats and wondering what my favorite banker was up to this evening."
"Talk about irony. I'm doing the exact same thing, minus the banker part."
Somehow the image of Vaughn sitting at home in his comfortable clothes was very seductive. Seductive? Did she just say Vaughn was seductive? It wasn't possible. She was thinking of him in terms of her handler, maybe even a good friend, but seductive?
"Turn on Channel 36," he suggested.
She aimed her remote at the television and pressed in the appropriate digits. Nick at Night, she knew the channel well. "What is it?" she asked, but recognized the old rerun of Bewitched right away.
"I used to love this show when I was a kid," he said. "Something about Samantha Stevens…man, was she sexy. Every boy in school was suddenly very interested in witchcraft and Harry Potter wasn't even a gleam in an author's eye."
"I used to watch this every day after school. Mom would have cookies and milk waiting and we'd tune in while she put dinner in the oven for Dad." Sydney caught herself. Good memories about her parents seemed like a huge betrayal of something, someone… Vaughn perhaps, and what had been taken away from him. "I'm sorry," she added, her voice filled with grief.
"Sydney," he said, in complete sympathy. "That's a nice memory. You should hang on to it. Besides, I stopped on this channel because she reminds me of you."
"Of me?" Did Vaughn just tell her in an around about way that he thought she was sexy? Naw, it couldn't be. Vaughn was her handler, her friend, he didn't think of her that way.
"Yeah," he gave a small snicker. "You're the only other one I know who can get out of impossible circumstances just by wiggling your nose."
She let out the breath she was holding. "Yeah, um, it usually takes a bit more than nose wiggling."
"You make it seem that simple," he said, with a heavy dose of sincerity in his voice.
"Samantha didn't have a guardian angel."
"Well," he said, uncomfortable with her praise, "I think I'm going to let you get to sleep. You must be exhausted."
"I'm glad you called." And she was. It was so comforting to think that she might be able to think of him in terms of more than just a voice on the other end of an earpiece. Though Francie and Will were good friends, no other person on the planet could relate to her the way Vaughn could. He was the only one who knew her for everything she was and everything she fought her heart and soul to change. "Goodnight…my friend."
"Goodnight, Sydney. Sleep well."
***
She stared at her reflection in the mirror and had to admit, she looked pretty, not sexy, not vivacious, not dangerous, simply pretty. It was so good to dress for something and not have to worry about where she was going to hide the mic or the key or the decoder. As she brushed on a final stroke of blush, she heard a familiar voice in the living room.
"Hey, Syd," Will yelled, noticing the bathroom door ajar. "I thought I'd drop by and see if you were up for a few drinks at Cavanaugh's tonight."
She stepped through the doorway and his jaw dropped. She wore a dazzling red dress tied daintily around her neck which fell perfectly straight just to the tips of her toes, which stuck out of matching strappy pumps.
"Wow," he breathed.
"Thanks," she blushed and fidgeted nervously under his scrutiny. "What were you saying? I couldn't hear you in there."
"I was going to see if you wanted to hit the pub, but I think you might be a bit overdressed."
"I'm—"
"Where are you going" he interrupted.
"The opera."
"I didn't know you liked opera," he said, taking a perch on the dining room table. "Who are you going with? Francie?"
"Um..no, I'm going alone actually."
"Alone. You're going alone to the opera?" He scratched his head. "Why?"
"Because I wanted to go and do something just for me." She walked over to the table and grabbed her small red clutch purse. "I know it seems odd, but for me it's just right. You probably don't understand."
"You're right," he said, standing to meet her, just inches away. "I don't. Why didn't you tell me, I would have gone with you?"
She held up her ticket. "Just one ticket. And like I said, I feel like doing this on my own. You understand."
"Sure." But he didn't understand. He watched as she made her way across the room, stopping to pick up a black wrap on her way to the door. "I guess I'll let myself out then."
"Goodnight, Will." She felt bad for leaving him behind. "Maybe we could try for the pub tomorrow night?"
He nodded and waved her off, a bit dejected. "Enjoy the opera, Syd."
***
The valet showed her to her seat. She couldn't have picked a better one for herself. Vaughn, being an intelligence man knew that the end of the row would have been her first choice and the view was perfect. She could see everyone around her and more importantly tonight she could see every square inch of the stage.
Verdi's tale of the consumptive Violetta and her paramour Alfredo played out before her like a bittersweet reminder of mistaken identities and misunderstandings. As complex and outrageous as their story was, Sydney couldn't help but realize that her own life would make the tragic opera pale in comparison.
As the final Act commenced, Sydney watched as a distraught Alfredo begs Violetta to forgive him for doubting her and for almost taking the life of Douphol in his jealousy. He pleads with her to accept him back into her life. Sydney couldn't help but wonder if there wasn't a time when her mother might have renounced her misguided ways and begged her father for the same second chance. Tears streamed down her face as the lover's embrace. She reached within the small red purse to find a tissue, but comes up empty handed.
Just then, out of the corner of her eye she noticed a flash of movement just behind her. She turned with slight trepidation, but quickly realized that it was simply a kind soul offering use of a crisp, white handkerchief. She turned slightly to accept the kindness of the stranger and was stunned to see the handsome face of Michael Vaughn. She had been so wrapped up in the beauty of Verdi's libretto she did not even sense his presence. Had he been seated there all along? Of course, it was his way of enjoying life's personal freedoms with her…only apart.
He smiled as she accepted his gesture, dabbing gently at her eyes. As Violetta fell lifeless at the feet of Alfredo, Sydney's hand fell to the side of her chair and reached hesitantly back. In seconds it was met and held tenderly by her handler, her friend…by Michael.
They stayed there like that, their arms stretched across the aisle between them, holding fast to something that was impossible. Watching the final moments of Violetta, as her demons are finally put to rest. Perhaps it was time for Sydney to do the same. Maybe with a hand to hold, it just might be possible.
(More to come…)
