April 13, 2005, 730 PM, Le Arc de Triumph
Samuel Clarke frowned. This was a twist to the tale. Locking the hotelroom door behind him, he pocketed the key, took the stairs to the lobby, and he hailed for a taxi. "Le Arc de Triumph, Monsieur," he ordered, to which the taxi driver nodded.
Asher was already there, leaning nonchalantly against the stones, just under the arch, the tails of the black sweater-coat she wore flapping about her ankles. She had been surprised when Sam had phoned the bar, asking her to meet him.
"Is it true then, Asher? Duncan MacLeod is selling the bar?" he asked after he greeted her.
"How did you-? He only told us today."
"I have my ways," he shrugged. "But this will please Pierson. He had hoped -but never mind what he hoped. What is done is done."
"What did he hope for, Sam?"
Sam shrugged again, a gesture both cynical and melancholy. "Same thing I had once hoped for, I suppose." He paused, turning to face Asher directly, taking her hands into his. "Do you love Richie, Asher?"
"Very much."
He dropped her hands. "I am glad of that, at least. Pierson was right of one thing. I do have a soft spot for buried love."
"So, you will tell Adam of the bar?"
"I think, in his old age and wisdom," he spoke this mockingly, as Adam Pierson could not have possibly been more than thirty, "he knew what would come to pass when he met MacLeod today."
"I didn't know he meant Mac today."
"In a graveyard, of all places."
"I didn't know Mac visited the graveyard today."
Sam chuckled, but like all his laughs, it held some quality of cynicism. "There are a great many things you don't know, Ash." He paused to sober. "I have something for you. I've kept it since you ran away from UCLA, and carelessly left this in an old professor's office. He was found decapitated. Don't suppose you know anything of that?"
"Of course I do not," she responded, but took the object, wrapped in brown paper and string. Sam mumbled something of airport security, but she didn't hear. "My sword," she murmured. "I don't understand. How did you- ?"
"I'm thinking of moving to Paris permanently," he smiled then, a smile both wise and bemused, wistful and secretive, sympathetic and sarcastic. "We shall cross paths again soon, Asher Jacobs."
She shot an arm out, touching her hand to his elbow. "You will tell no one you saw me?"
"You have my word," Sam promised, and with a smile, he pivoted, disappearing into the Paris shadows. But when he had handed her the sword, Asher had noticed the small symbol tattooed to his wrist.
Wondering, she walked home, having hid the now un-wrapped sword in the hidden pocket she had long ago fashioned, safely tucked inside the back lining of the sweater-coat. She found Richie still awake, sprawled on the couch, bottled beer and microwaved dinner on the coffee table, watching a James Bond movie. She smiled. A scene reminiscent of the first night she had stayed, the first night she had fallen in love.
She smiled again, slipped out of the sweater-coat and shoes, curled next to Richie, stealing a bite of his dinner. He too smiled, pressed a kiss to her left temple.
Meanwhile, two figures hurried through JFK airport to catch an airplane bound for Paris.
Samuel Clarke frowned. This was a twist to the tale. Locking the hotelroom door behind him, he pocketed the key, took the stairs to the lobby, and he hailed for a taxi. "Le Arc de Triumph, Monsieur," he ordered, to which the taxi driver nodded.
Asher was already there, leaning nonchalantly against the stones, just under the arch, the tails of the black sweater-coat she wore flapping about her ankles. She had been surprised when Sam had phoned the bar, asking her to meet him.
"Is it true then, Asher? Duncan MacLeod is selling the bar?" he asked after he greeted her.
"How did you-? He only told us today."
"I have my ways," he shrugged. "But this will please Pierson. He had hoped -but never mind what he hoped. What is done is done."
"What did he hope for, Sam?"
Sam shrugged again, a gesture both cynical and melancholy. "Same thing I had once hoped for, I suppose." He paused, turning to face Asher directly, taking her hands into his. "Do you love Richie, Asher?"
"Very much."
He dropped her hands. "I am glad of that, at least. Pierson was right of one thing. I do have a soft spot for buried love."
"So, you will tell Adam of the bar?"
"I think, in his old age and wisdom," he spoke this mockingly, as Adam Pierson could not have possibly been more than thirty, "he knew what would come to pass when he met MacLeod today."
"I didn't know he meant Mac today."
"In a graveyard, of all places."
"I didn't know Mac visited the graveyard today."
Sam chuckled, but like all his laughs, it held some quality of cynicism. "There are a great many things you don't know, Ash." He paused to sober. "I have something for you. I've kept it since you ran away from UCLA, and carelessly left this in an old professor's office. He was found decapitated. Don't suppose you know anything of that?"
"Of course I do not," she responded, but took the object, wrapped in brown paper and string. Sam mumbled something of airport security, but she didn't hear. "My sword," she murmured. "I don't understand. How did you- ?"
"I'm thinking of moving to Paris permanently," he smiled then, a smile both wise and bemused, wistful and secretive, sympathetic and sarcastic. "We shall cross paths again soon, Asher Jacobs."
She shot an arm out, touching her hand to his elbow. "You will tell no one you saw me?"
"You have my word," Sam promised, and with a smile, he pivoted, disappearing into the Paris shadows. But when he had handed her the sword, Asher had noticed the small symbol tattooed to his wrist.
Wondering, she walked home, having hid the now un-wrapped sword in the hidden pocket she had long ago fashioned, safely tucked inside the back lining of the sweater-coat. She found Richie still awake, sprawled on the couch, bottled beer and microwaved dinner on the coffee table, watching a James Bond movie. She smiled. A scene reminiscent of the first night she had stayed, the first night she had fallen in love.
She smiled again, slipped out of the sweater-coat and shoes, curled next to Richie, stealing a bite of his dinner. He too smiled, pressed a kiss to her left temple.
Meanwhile, two figures hurried through JFK airport to catch an airplane bound for Paris.