“I do,” Libby responded. “It’s a beautiful building. Mr. Halstrom certainly hired the right architect.”
“For sure. That Japanese team is tops.”
Libby frowned. She had no idea that David was affiliated with an overseas company. He’d never mentioned it, and she had simply assumed he was a one-man operation, and a local one at that. It was probably a naive assumption in this day and age when everything and everyone seemed to operate on a global basis.
And then she wondered if David’s permanent residence was in Japan, and, if so, just how soon he would be returning there. But then she decided she didn’t want to know the answer to that particular question, at least not right now when she was looking so forward to their day in Hannibal, not to mention the night that might follow it.
Well, a girl could hope, couldn’t she? She sank back into the luxurious leather upholstery. She didn’t want to think about anything except the day ahead and the pleasure it might bring.
What she’d never anticipated, though, and never would have in a million years, was that David would have a helicopter on the roof of the Marquis, waiting to whisk them north along the Mississippi River.
“I’ve never been in a helicopter,” she said more than a bit nervously as David boosted her inside it.
The rotors overhead were beginning to whirl and roar so he had to shout back. “Well, I’ve never been to Hannibal, Libby, so I guess that makes us even.” He settled himself inside, then held her hand tightly as they lifted off into the bright blue sky. It wasn’t much more than a minute or two before the big hotel appeared as just a shiny speck in the distance behind them.
The trip that would normally have taken them an hour and a half by car took them a mere thirty minutes in the air. The river town was busy, apparently preparing for a Huckleberry Finn festival, but since it was a weekday the tourists weren’t exactly overrunning the place as they might have on a weekend. By a little past one o’clock, Libby and David had visited Mark Twain’s boyhood home, ogled Tom Sawyer’s whitewashed fence and done a quick, fun trek through the museum, all the while holding hands like a couple of goofy kids. Like Tom and Becky, Libby thought.
For lunch they ordered hot dogs and fries from a street vendor, then carried their goodies down to the riverbank where they sat for an hour talking, watching as the Mighty Mississippi rolled by. As before, it was mostly Libby who talked up a storm while David listened and tended to deflect most of her questions back to her.
“Where were you born?” she asked him.
“Texas,” he answered, raising his hand to dab a bit of mustard from a corner of her mouth. “What about you?”
“Here,” she said. “Missouri.” Then Libby spent a while talking about her parents’ deaths, growing up at the Haven View and her aunt Elizabeth and Doug. As far as life stories went, hers wasn’t very exotic. It wasn’t even very interesting.
“Why did you want to be an architect?” she asked.
His answer was barely more than a shrug, followed by, “Why did you decide to be a photographer?”
Of course, having been asked about her favorite subject, she went into the whole story about her very first camera, her work at the St. Louis newspaper, and on and on.
She snapped pictures all the while—of the wharf, of the riverbank and the river—but hard as she tried, she wasn’t able to capture David’s face in a single frame. The man had an uncanny knack of turning, bending or lifting his hand at the exact moment she took the shot. She was almost beginning to believe he had some sort of camera phobia, and she so desperately wanted a picture of him, especially since he might be going to Japan at any time and she’d never see him again.
The mere thought of his leaving nearly made her queasy. She excused herself to return to Main Street for a bathroom visit. And then, smart little cookie that she was, she slipped a telephoto lens onto her camera while walking toward town, slowly turned and managed to get some really incredible shots of the man she’d left behind on the riverbank.
The gorgeous autumn day had turned cold late that afternoon, and by the time they climbed out of the helicopter on the roof of the Marquis, Libby was shivering.
“I know just how to warm you up,” David said, punching a number on his phone and telling whoever responded to have the hot tub in the penthouse ready in half an hour.
Then he led her to an elevator whose door swooshed open moments later just a few steps outside the cozy and dark little bar on the mezzanine.
“Two brandies, Tom. The good stuff,” he said, holding up two fingers in the direction of the bartender who appeared to be presiding over an empty room.
“Right away, Mr.…”
“Thanks,” David said, cutting him off as he led Libby to a banquette in the corner where a candle glowed in the center of table.
She scooted into the lush leather seat. David slid in next to her and wrapped his arm around her shoulder. “You’ll be warm in just one minute, darlin’. I promise.”
She’d already warmed up considerably just from the heat of his body so close to hers. The subsequent brandy, in a huge crystal snifter, was hardly a match for her companion’s warmth, she thought. And then Libby cautioned herself not to become too accustomed to the man or his warmth since it probably wouldn’t be long before he was warming some other woman on the other side of the planet.
“I had more fun today than I’ve had in a long, long time,” she said, lifting the brandy glass toward him. “Here’s to my gracious and most gallant host.”
The clink of the crystal when their glasses touched was a bit of music all on its own.
“Here’s to Tom and Becky and Huck,” he said. “And here’s to you, Libby. I don’t think I’ve ever had such a good time. Not even when I was a kid.” He put the snifter down, and then his brow furrowed as he gathered in a long, deep breath.
It was one of those moments when a tiny little uhoh sounded inside her head. Furrows and long, deep breaths were rarely, if ever, followed by good news. Furrows and long, deep breaths usually, almost always, meant trouble.
“Libby,” he said softly, his eyes locking on to hers. “There’s something that I…”
His cell phone let out a sharp little bleep just then. David cursed as he wrenched it from his pocket and very nearly broke it open in order to respond. “What?” he growled. After listening for a minute or so, he pressed a button to put the caller on hold. “I have to take this infernal call, Libby. I’m sorry, darlin’.”
“Go ahead.” Libby swirled the remaining brandy in her glass. The candlelight turned its color to a dark and lovely honey. “Take your time, David. I truly don’t mind.”
He kissed her forehead before he slid out of the booth, then walked—well, the man stalked, if truth be told—to the far end of the bar to continue the conversation. From her vantage point, and judging from his body language, it looked as if he were bestowing some very bad news on the person at the other end of the connection.
For the moment, Libby was just thankful it wasn’t her.
David
