strong, wet wind sprang up, almost flattening the hospital’s flower garden, and the rain began to cascade in earnest. She slipped out of her backpack, got out her heavy weather rain cape, shook it out and started to put it on.
Another gale of wind made her stagger, and it ripped the cape from her hands and sent it flying off like a strange yellow bat over the storm-tossed shrubs. It flapped as high as the trees and disappeared. The whipping rain half blinded her.
She’d have to walk the bike home, as fast as she could. She swore softly, then gritted her teeth and told herself to buck up. She needed to be at her job within three hours.
Marie felt like the proverbial drowned rat when she reached the apartment that she and Colette shared. Curious as she was, she knew there wasn’t time to read the mysterious letter. She laid it atop her dresser, showered and got ready for work.
She put on a plain black skirt and another white shirt, this one with frills and clip-on black bowtie. She studied herself in the mirror and thought that her life was a series of changing uniforms. Even when not in a work uniform, she had a sort of uniform. Bush pants and shirt—sturdy and sensible wear.
Now she fluffed her hair to make it look softer and gave thanks that she had a ride to the Scepter Hotel. Her coworker, Izzy, would pick her up and bring her home. Marie chipped in for petrol and Izzy’s trouble.
When Isabella honked, Marie snatched up her raincoat and dashed for the car. She made small talk with Izzy, but didn’t confess her fear that Colette seemed worse. She couldn’t bring herself to put her anxiety into spoken words. She feigned her usual natural cheer.
That night, distracted as she was, she performed her job with utter professionalism, perfect courtesy and genuine charm, as if she hadn’t a care in the world. She spoke Chinese to the Chinese businessmen, Malaysian to the Malay tourists, and Spanish to a traveler from Argentina. She had a gift for languages and had studied them at college. She had a smile for everyone.
Well, almost everyone. Butch Paul, a busboy, had come close to sexually harassing her lately, but if he tried tonight, he’d be extremely sorry.
When other men tried to flirt with her, she acted as if they were only teasing and smiled at them, refusing to get involved. Nobody came to the Scepter to be greeted by a mope. Her business was not hanging her heart on her sleeve, it was hospitality.
Redheaded Mick Makem was a regular customer, and tonight when he joked with her, she made herself banter back as if she were in the best of spirits.
She vaguely noticed that he sat with a dark, lean man who was strikingly handsome, then rebuked herself for paying attention to a good-looking man at a time like this. She’d vowed to keep herself under strict control tonight.
But then it happened. Butch the busboy gave the side of her breast a hard squeeze as she was leaving the kitchen, and she snapped. She spun about and stamped his foot so hard that tears sprang into his eyes. “That’s not fair,” Butch accused. “You know kung fu or something.”
“Yes, I do,” Marie returned coolly. “So don’t ever touch me again. Ever.” She turned and left him glaring after her. She hadn’t spilled so much as a drop from the drinks on her tray.
“Somebody ought to take you down a notch,” Butch sneered.
Marie saw that Mick and his dark-haired friend had seen it all. Mick made an okay sign and grinned at her as she came to their table. “Way to go, slugger,” he said.
The dark man simply stared at her with a strange intensity. He said, “We both saw what he did. Do you want us to report it? He was completely out of line.”
He looked genuinely concerned, but she said, “No thanks. I’ll be fine.”
“You’re sure?” he asked, looking into her eyes.
“Positive,” she said. And she was positive. She had a green belt in karate, and someday she intended to work her way up to black. Colette had insisted she take classes. Darwin had its rough elements, and Marie was so small that Colette wanted her to know how to protect herself.
But physical toughness wasn’t going to get her through this latest crisis. Colette’s illness demanded a different kind of strength, and she wasn’t sure how much she had left.
And as the work night wore on, she wondered more and more about the contents of Colette’s mysterious envelope. Why’d she give it to me now? What did she mean, it’s time?
Her uneasiness grew.
Andrew and Mick lingered, nursing their drinks until closing time. They had much to talk about, and in the back of Andrew’s mind, he worried about that small blond woman who might be too spunky for her own good.
Sure enough, just as he and Mick were back in Mick’s Jeep, about to pull away, he saw two women dash through the mist toward an older model car. One of them was the little blonde, her head down. The rangy busboy stepped from the shadows and blocked their way. He looked as if he might have helped himself to a drink or two at the bar. He grabbed the blonde’s arm, scowling, hectoring her.
The dark-haired woman looked frightened, the little blonde seemed incensed. Mick started to say something, but Andrew didn’t hear it. He was out of the Jeep, and in six strides he was between the busboy and the blonde. “Look,” Andrew said from between his teeth, “leave the lady alone. You want to pick on somebody, try somebody your own size. Will I do? Huh? Will I?”
The rangy kid swore, but after casting Andrew a filthy look, he turned and quickly sloshed off into the shadows, kicking angrily at puddles. The dark-haired woman was already in the car.
“Get in, Marie,” she called. “Before he comes back.”
“I’ll stay until you’re out of the lot—and watch that nobody follows you,” Andrew said, looking down at Marie. “You have a cell phone in case you need one?”
She stared up at him, her face pale in the parking lot lights. Her pale skin gleamed with moisture from the night’s haze. My God, he thought, she’s lovely.
“A mobile?” she asked. “Yes. Yes, I do. I’ll be fine. Really, I—I can take care of myself. I—I—”
She amazed him by beginning to shake. Not just a slight tremor, but a real shaking, like someone shivering from intolerable cold.
He seized her upper arms in concern. He could feel her muscles jerking beneath her raincoat’s thin fabric. Her lower lip worked helplessly, her chin trembled, and he couldn’t tell if her eyes were moist from tears or from the fine rain.
“Are you okay?” he demanded, leaning nearer.
“Y-y-you’ve been very kind, b-b-but—” She couldn’t seem to get any more words out. He slipped one arm around her, afraid her knees were about to buckle.
“Miss, I’m going to tell your manager about this incident. And if that fool harasses you again, call the police. I mean it.”
She tried to disengage herself, but when she took a step backward, she swayed, as if she couldn’t quite support herself. Instead, she sagged forward, clutching the lapels of his rain jacket. She buried her face against his chest. Her back heaved as if she were sobbing silently.
But only for the
