Meg liked Sundays. They were calm and quiet and nobody bothered her to file this or plan that or discipline them. It was her time and, when she didn't have plans, her favorite thing to do was absolutely nothing. Sundays were for books and silly TV movies and maybe chats on the phone with her sister or her father.
This Sunday, she was curled up on her couch in her pajamas, searching in vain for something to watch. The first sight that met her eyes when she turned the TV on was a pink screen with a heart in the middle that said, "TV's All-time Favorite Love Stories". Meg frowned and flipped to the next station, which was showing a sickly sweet romantic comedy.
"Oh, please," Meg groaned to herself, rolling her eyes. She found romantic comedies and self-proclaimed "chick flicks" tedious unless they were very well done or movies she had enjoyed when she was young and naive.
When she found three more variations of the same theme on the next three stations, she sighed heavily. Even the History Channel let her down; it was playing "History's Favorite Couples".
"What is going on today?" Usually, she could find a good documentary or a compelling drama on Lifetime. She flicked through a couple more stations, then gave up and turned off the TV.
With a frown, her eyes flicked to the page-a-day "Hunk" calendar that Francesca Vecchio had given her in their holiday exchange a couple of months before. Suddenly, it all made sense.
"Bleah," she said, throwing her remote to the coffee table in disgust. "The day deluded men and women decide to show their questionable affection in large and ridiculous ways."
It was a day made to fool people into believing the biggest lie of all. It was bigger than Santa Claus. Bigger than Elvis being alive and well out there somewhere. It was the myth that true love existed outside the boundaries of that fake Hollywood world, and every day otherwise rational people fell for it. She had almost fallen for it herself once or twice.
She got up and headed for her bedroom, determined to find something to read. And it would not be a romance novel.
XXX
The Consulate was still closed and the sun had not yet risen when Ray parked his GTO a block away and moved through the darkness to the front door.
As he went quietly up the steps, he hoped that he wouldn't wake Fraser or that Dief wouldn't bark. If Fraser found out about the joke, he would certainly put an end to it. That wouldn't do, especially after Ray had laboured so hard over both the card and the note. Neither was as easy as he thought they would be. It took him over an hour to pick out the card, and, even though he kind of knew what he wanted to say, it took almost as long to decide how to put it down.
The mailbox near the door squeaked a little as he raised the lid. Ray froze and listened for noise coming from inside the Consulate. When there was no sign of sleepy Mountie or hungry wolf, he slipped the pink envelope inside.
The lid squeaked again as he lowered it carefully, but not quite as loudly. Without turning back—praying the 'if I can't see you, you can't see me' philosophy would work—he crept down the stairs then took off at a sprint.
By the time he reached his car, he was laughing. He did it! He had actually written and delivered a love note to the Ice Queen. His success made him giddy.
Now all he had to do was make sure he was there when she received it.
XXX
It was about eleven o'clock the second time Ray made his way to the Canadian Consulate. This time, he parked directly out front and whistled as he went up the front steps. He glanced at the mailbox, which was slightly open, and saw other envelopes mixed in with his own pink one. That meant it wouldn't be long until Turnbull came out to get the mail. All Ray had to do was somehow figure out a way to be in the foyer when the Ice Queen came out to look through it.
"Mornin', Turnbull," he said cheerily as he came through the door.
"Good morning, Ray." The Mountie looked up and beamed benevolently. "Did you notice if the mail has arrived?"
For a moment, Ray thought he had been made, but then he remembered who he was talking to. "Yeah, I think so."
"Excellent. And how was your Valentine's Day?"
Ray shrugged. "I spent it helping Tony and Maria move. How'd your present work on Frannie?"
Turnbull's broad face broke into a smile. "I had a wonderful Valentine's Day. When I gave Francesca her present, she agreed to accompany me to dinner and a movie."
"Glad you had a good time."
"It was lovely. Francesca is a delightful companion."
"Good to hear. Fraser in?"
"Yes, he is, Ray. He is in his office making plans for the Consular Ball next month. Will you be attending?"
Ray was about to go past the desk and towards Fraser's office, but he stopped at this comment. "Me?"
"Yes. In the interest of our cultural relations, the Inspector has been asked to invite members of the Chicago Police Department that have been working closely with us. Invitees include Detectives Huey and Dewey, Francesca, Lt. Welsh, and yourself."
"Me?" he asked again.
"I'm sorry if I let the cat out of the bag."
Ray waved a hand. "It's okay."
"I hope you will consider attending. It will be quite an affair."
"Yeah. Maybe." He didn't add that he'd rather have a root canal or listen to Frannie interview a suspect.
Ray turned and headed to Fraser's office. The door was open, and Fraser was studying a piece of paper and mumbling to himself.
"You know that's the first sign you're crazy," Ray said with a smile.
"Oh, hello, Ray. I'm just trying to figure out the guest list for our Consular Ball."
"Are you almost done? I thought you were coming with me this morning."
"And I am. I just have to finish this. Have a seat."
Ray looked at the chair then out the doorway. If this took too long, he would miss Thatcher's reaction to his note and everything would be ruined.
"Is there something wrong?"
"No", was all he could say as he parked his butt in his usual chair.
It seemed like forever before Fraser stood and grabbed his tunic. It seemed to take even longer for him to do up the buttons and put on his Sam Browne. Ray tapped his foot impatiently and played with the buttons on his own jacket.
When Fraser was finally ready, Ray jumped to his feet and snatched Fraser's Stetson off of a nearby file cabinet.
"Here you go, buddy."
"Thank you kindly."
"Welcome."
Turnbull was just settling back into his chair when Ray, Diefenbaker, and Fraser entered the foyer. He set the mail neatly to one side on his desk and picked up his phone.
"The mail is here, sir."
Fraser was headed for the outside door, and the Ice Queen hadn't even come out of her office yet.
"Wait a minute, Frase," Ray blurted.
His friend turned puzzled eyes to him. "What is it, Ray?"
Ray searched his mind frantically for anything that would make sense. He was saved by Turnbull's, "Oh, sir, before you go, I really need you to look over this 141RB Report. The Inspector insisted that you read it and sign it to make sure I got the correct details."
"Now, Turnbull?"
"I apologize, sir, but she wanted it by noon."
Fraser nodded and went to Turnbull's desk while Ray just smiled to himself.
The Inspector appeared moments later, her expression unreadable. There were papers in her hands, and she calmly took in the scene in front of her.
"Are you leaving, Constable?" she asked, approaching Turnbull's desk.
"Yes, sir," Fraser replied, "but I'll be back in time for my shift."
"And Turnbull's 141RB Report?"
"I'm reading it over now."
She nodded her acceptance and held out the papers in her hand to Turnbull. "Can I trust you to fax these, Constable?"
"Yes, sir," he assured her, sitting up straighter.
"Good. These need to be sent tomorrow. Do not forget."
"Yes, sir," he repeated, picking up the mail and trading with her.
Fraser asked Turnbull a question about his report, and Turnbull's attention wandered from the Inspector to his colleague. Ray leaned his butt against the desk, pretending to be bored and pretending that all of his attention was not on the Ice Queen.
She bit her lip as she started flipping through the mail in her hands. It was such an unconscious gesture when she was normally so careful and controlled that Ray rather liked it. He watched her closely as she dismissed each envelope until she got to the pink one that simply said, in Ray's own handwriting, "Inspector Meg Thatcher, Canadian Consulate."
He saw a flicker of interest go over her pretty face as she picked it out of the pile and broke the seal. He couldn't believe how lucky he was that she was going to open it right there in front of him. As he watched her, he had to fight both the urge to stare and the urge to grin. He wondered eagerly what her reaction would be.
Slim fingers took out the card Ray had laboured over. Her eyes skimmed over the words before she opened it. He saw her read what was inside.
A small blush went over her face, and her eyes widened slightly. Delight danced over her features, warm and happy, and a soft and sweet smile touched her mouth. They were both gone so quickly that neither Turnbull nor Fraser had seen them. But Ray had, and suddenly his joke didn't seem so funny anymore.
The Inspector quickly stuck the card and note into the pocket of her form fitting suit jacket. Then, she looked up at each of the three men. Fraser and Turnbull were still working, and Ray made sure his attention was on the floor.
"Are you almost done with the report, Constables?" she asked.
Both of them looked her way, and Fraser said, "Almost, sir."
Her eyes slid to Ray. "Detective."
It took all he had to give her a disinterested, "Inspector."
As the Ice Queen turned and went back to her office, Ray felt guilt settle in the pit of his stomach. He didn't know what he had expected her reaction to be—anger, embarrassment, a dramatic eyeroll—but he hadn't expected her to take innocent pleasure from it. She had looked so happy; he'd never seen her smile like that before. It softened her face and her eyes, smoothing away the serious lines and making her look like a person he'd really like to know.
He was a jerk.
XXX
Meg Thatcher smiled to herself as she worked on her paperwork later that day. Occasionally, her eyes flicked to the small pink envelope carefully placed on the side of her desk. Silly as it was, the card and note inside had kept her smiling all day.
It wasn't often that she received a Valentine. In fact, besides the yearly one from her father, she could count the ones she had received as an adult on one hand. Despite her views on the whole consumer market fabricated holiday, she was honest enough about her own hypocrisy to admit that getting the card had been a pleasant surprise. Someone had actually taken the time to buy her a card, one both tasteful and sugar-free, and to put a sweet message inside it.
For not the first time, she wondered who could have sent it. Both the card and the note were signed, "From your secret admirer," which wasn't very informative. What kind of man would do something so nice and then not want to take credit for it?
Meg wasn't getting any creepy vibes from it, so she had ruled out someone with malicious intent, like a stalker. The whole thing had her puzzled and more than a little curious. Even though her eyes were staring at her paperwork, her mind went through possible matches for the careful, slightly uneven handwriting.
It could have been anyone. Since the envelope had no address and no stamp, the giver had to be someone in Chicago. There were several men she came into contact with while performing her diplomatic duties. She came in regular contact with several more while performing her duties as an RCMP administrator and with her own interaction, which wasn't as much as Fraser's but was still quite extensive, with the 27th Division of the Chicago Police Department.
She stilled a moment as a thought drifted through her mind. What if it were from Fraser or Turnbull? The thought made a rush of flame spread over her face. Could one of her Constables have sent her a note that said, "I don't know how it's possible, but you get prettier each time I see you"?
Meg forced herself to breathe. Turnbull was smitten with Francesca Vecchio, wasn't he? She was sure he was. But what about Fraser?
The two of them had been through a lot together. At first their relationship had been mostly mutual attraction and denial but lately, in the past year or so—since the confusion about her wanting to adopt a child, she thought sadly—their relationship had moved more towards friendship. A deep and lasting friendship, she liked to believe, but who knew what would happen when this posting ended?
Meg reached out and picked up the pink envelope. She studied the handwriting carefully. It didn't look like Fraser's neat, precise script, but stranger things had happened. She wondered if her male acquaintances would think her crazy if she asked them all to provide a sample of their handwriting.
Her lip quirked at the thought, and she was still staring at the envelope when her phone beeped.
"Yes, Turnbull?"
"A very lovely lady is here to see you, ma'am."
Meg dropped the envelope. "What?"
Turnbull cleared his throat. "Excuse me. Miss Francesca Vecchio is here to see you."
"Francesca Vecchio?"
"Yes, sir. She has papers for you to sign from Lieutenant Welsh."
Meg frowned and shuffled her papers so that her pink envelope was hidden. "All right, send her in."
She was calm and composed and working on her neglected paperwork when Francesca came in.
"Hi," she said.
"Hello, Francesca."
Meg studied the Civilian Aide thoughtfully. They had worked a couple of cases together and, despite their differences, Meg really liked her. Lately, Francesca had taken to dressing more conservatively and toning down her bright and wild image, but the spark of fun and willingness to believe was still in her eyes.
"The Lieutenant ordered me down here. I hope you're not too busy."
"No," Meg assured her. "It's fine." It wasn't as if she were getting any work done anyway.
"There are a couple of claim forms, a report on what happened with that mob guy last Christmas, and some other stuff. He wants me to wait while you read and sign them."
"All right." Meg waved her to one of the extra chairs. "Have a seat."
Francesca plopped the papers on the desk and sat. She looked around in appreciation. "This is a nice office."
"Thank you."
"All I get is that dinky desk...well, you've seen it."
"Yes." She also remembered how Francesca had personalized it. Animal prints and flowers. Not Meg's style but very Francesca Vecchio.
"I'd like to have my own office. That way, I could hide sometimes when he's yelling for me."
Meg raised her eyebrows in amusement. "Lieutenant Welsh?"
"He growls just like a bear."
"I can imagine." The Lieutenant was large and rough and gruff, but Meg liked him. And she knew Francesca did as well.
The two women were silent as Meg began to go over the forms. They were dry and boring, but then so much of her job was.
She heard Francesca get up and glanced in her direction. Francesca was walking around the office, peering at Meg's paintings and pictures.
"Is everything all right?"
"Just looking. Is this your family?"
She was pointing to a picture taken about five years before of Meg in red serge with her father smiling on her right and Lisa with a baby in her arms on the left.
"Yes."
"Your dad looks nice." This she said rather quietly, making Meg curious in spite of herself.
"He is." Meg smiled slightly. "A little old fashioned, but kind."
Francesca frowned, her face taking on a faraway quality. After a moment, she asked, "What does it feel like?"
"What?"
"Respect."
"I'm not sure what you mean."
Francesca sighed and flopped back into her chair. "I've been thinking about it a lot lately. At first, I thought it was that I wanted to be a cop. I'm around cops all the time, so it's only natural, right? But I don't think that's it anymore. I think what I want is the respect. Nobody has ever respected me in my whole life. Sometimes I think my brother was right. No matter what I do, no one will ever respect me."
Meg put down her pen and frowned darkly. "Vecchio said that?"
"Yeah. How do you do it? How do you get them to respect you?"
Meg thought about her answer before replying, "I don't ask for their respect. I expect it. You can't let men think that they're better than you are just because they have a couple of bits that you don't. You show them that you will take nothing less than the respect you deserve. Most men will respond to that, some more than others. Sometimes, you're lucky, and you'll come across men like Fraser and Turnbull who respect your rank and position no matter what gender you are-and if you tell them I said that, I'll deny it. The absolute truth is that some men will never respect you, no matter who you are or what you do. I've come across a couple of those in my work—and in my life. When it's a senior officer, it makes it...difficult... to get through the days. When it's someone under your command, you have to get rid of him or risk the demolition of your whole house of cards."
"This senior officer...?"
Meg grimaced. "I'd rather not talk about it."
Francesca nodded in understanding. "Oh. One of those."
"Yes."
"I can't believe even someone like you would have that kind of problem."
Meg didn't know whether to be insulted by this or not, especially after she had opened herself up to the younger woman. "What do you mean someone like me?"
"You know," Francesca said, "Confident."
Meg blinked. "Oh."
"Some men stink."
"I agree."
"But not Ren." Francesca's face broke out into her normal easy smile.
"You're on a first name basis with Constable Turnbull, are you?"
"Yeah. Ever since we went to that Tracy Jenkins concert. He even took me out for Valentine's Day."
Meg didn't know exactly how to answer this, so she settled for the diplomatic, "Constable Turnbull is a special man."
"Yeah, he is."
"You know, you don't have to remain in my office, Francesca. It's perfectly all right for you to join Turnbull for a few minutes."
"He won't get in trouble?"
Meg shook her head slightly. "It's fine."
Francesca sprang from her seat. "Just let me know when you're done."
"I'll bring the papers out to you," she assured her.
"Thanks." Francesca was almost to the door when she turned around. "Um...Inspector...?"
Meg looked up from the papers once more. "Yes?"
"I was just thinking...This might sound strange, coming from me, but I was wondering if you'd like to come to dinner at my house tomorrow night. We're having a family dinner, friends too. Ray and Benton and Ren will all be there."
"Me?"
"Well, yeah. If you're free. We've known each other for ages, so why not?"
Meg swallowed. "It's very nice of you to offer, Francesca, but I'm not sure it would be appropriate to socialize with my Constables outside of work."
The other woman snorted. "What Ottawa doesn't know won't hurt 'em. Besides, I'd like you to come. All Maria talks about is her kids and, while that's okay, sometimes when she goes on and on, I want to scream. And she's going to be the only other woman there, besides Ma, if you don't come."
"Don't you think your mother would mind a stranger at the table?"
"Ma? Nah. She loves me bringin' friends home. Like I was twelve or something."
"Well, if you're certain."
"Great! Supper's at six. Follow the trail of Mounties."
As she left the office, Meg found herself feeling both bemused and confused. Surprise was in there too. She could not believe that Francesca Vecchio had reached out to her. This day was turning out to be a very interesting one.