Epilogue


Linus signed his last review for the day, laid it aside in his outbox, and sat back with a sigh. It was more than an hour past closing time. Harvey had an eye on the after-hours trading. Mack was on vacation.

The amber light slanted sharply through the air, cut into elongated shadows by chair arms and split into prisms by glass tabletops. He hadn't meant to work this late. Glancing toward his washroom, he dismissed the thought of a shave and set out with his jacket looped over his arm.

The 48th floor was as still as a tomb. He listened thoughtfully to the silence broken by his footsteps that the closed office doors echoed back at him. David's office was once again empty. He'd moved down to join Legal.

Mother was sure to have something scrumptious ordered for dinner at the big house, if he cared to meet Elizabeth and David there. He debated whether the drive out was worth it. It was Friday; he could stay the night. Best to go home and change first, though. This was his least favorite suit.

"Good evening, sir," said the concierge in his apartment lobby. Linus nodded absentmindedly. His thoughts were already on the road to Maude's house. He'd even take her little dog for company at this point over the vacant silence of his apartment.

He tossed his keys on the entry table and sidestepped a pile of luggage that was blocking his entrance to the half-bath. When he came out, he noticed another suit jacket — this one pearl-colored with slim shoulders and a red cloth poppy pinned to the lapel — flung across a suitcase instead of hung up properly. He must have been horribly distracted to have left it like that.

Wait — luggage? A poppy?

Linus threw both jackets over the suitcase's raised handle and made a beeline for the bedroom.

The sight that met him stopped him in his tracks. A matching pearl-colored suit skirt lay over a chair arm, with a pair of pumps tucked neatly out of the way on the floor beneath. An open book lay facedown on the nearer bedside table. Nestled among the pillows, nearly hidden from sight, was the slack-jawed yet stunning face of the Larrabee Corporation's director of philanthropy.

Cautious not to make another noise, Linus crept in. Thankfully, she appeared to have slept through all the racket he'd made so far. He sat on the edge of the bed and leaned over to investigate the book. The simple black cover merely said Collected Poems — A.E.

The sleeper's face held much more appeal. He ran his thumb lightly across her chin, just below her ajar lower lip. From the pajama collar bunched above her shoulders, he could tell she'd raided his dresser.

"Thief," he muttered fondly.

The light touch brought a hand from beneath the covers to feel groggily along her chin for its source. Linus captured the hand with his own and bent to kiss her forehead. "Hi, Sabrina."

The sound of his voice brought her fully awake. "Darling," she rasped, bringing him down for a proper kiss.

"I thought your flight was delayed?" he murmured into the corner of her mouth.

"It would have been, if I'd stayed with the airline," she explained. "I got the jet to come and pick me up in Atlanta without telling you. I wanted it to be a surprise." She stretched and smiled sheepishly. "I just couldn't stay awake until you got home."

"Sorry I woke you," he answered with a teasing smile.

She pushed half-heartedly at his chest. "No you're not."

He shifted, keeping an arm tucked under her while reaching for the book with his other hand. "Is this any good?"

They heard something clink on the floor as he lifted the volume. Both craned to see what it was: a wedding ring on a long necklace chain.

"My fingers always swell up like balloons when I fly across the sea," she told him.

Linus eyed her dubiously and held one of her hands up in front of her face. "You mean those long party balloons, that clowns make animals with?"

"Yes. Pre-sculpting, of course. Imagine trying to get a ring past all those bends in a balloon dog."

Linus snorted as he retrieved the ring and freed it from its chain to slip it back on her finger.

"I quite like the book," she went on as he worked. "It's Elizabeth's latest effort to convince me of the superiority of Irish culture."

"A.E. is Irish?"

"Yes, he was friends with Yeats. More evidence that Irish poetry is better than English, apparently."

"Well, did you bring her back anything from Manchester, to strike a blow for Queen and country?" He stroked her curls back from her forehead. "Manchester United scores? Reports on our affordable housing project?"

"I got her a very nice remembrance poppy pin. That poem about the poppies was written by an English soldier, you know."

"I thought John McCrae was Canadian."

"Mince. Well, he fought for England."

"I'll grant you that."

She wiggled contentedly and smiled up at him. "God save the Queen."

Linus pulled back his head in mock affront. "Listen here, sweetheart," pointing a finger at her nose, "I won't have that kind of talk in my American bed."

Sabrina snaked a hand free and grasped one end of his bowtie. The knot sprang loose at her decisive tug. It never failed to make him grin stupidly when she did that.

"Much better," she said, quite unconcerned by his pronouncement.

"No dinner tonight at Mother's, huh?"

"Can't go out again," she sighed. "Too tired."

"I'll see what we have." He started to get up.

"Wait," Sabrina requested. "Will you read me the poem I left it open to? I think I dropped off in the middle of it."

"Trying to go back to sleep already?"

She swatted at him, though her heavy eyelids betrayed her. "You've got a taste for poetry in there somewhere."

Linus hoisted the book and cradled the side of Sabrina's face with his other hand. Her eyes drifted closed again.

At dusk the window panes grew grey;
The wet world vanished in the gloom;
The dim and silver end of day
Scarce glimmered through the little room.

And all my sins were told; I said
Such things to her who knew not sin —
The sharp ache throbbing in my head,
The fever running high within.

I touched with pain her purity;
Sin's darker sense I could not bring:
My soul was black as night to me;
To her I was a wounded thing.

I needed love no words could say;
She drew me softly nigh her chair,
My head upon her knees to lay,
With cool hands that caressed my hair.

She sat with hands as if to bless,
And looked with grave, ethereal eyes;
Ensouled by ancient Quietness,
A gentle priestess of the Wise.

— "Forgiveness," A.E.


THE END