We both needed it.
“Baltimore,” he finally murmured against my lips.
“I know . . .”
He started the engine and pulled away from the curb.
By now, night was falling fast. Soon the trees looked black to me, the road ahead unbearably dark—until Quinn flipped on the headlights and asked me to go on with my story.
“Which part?” I asked. “You know the State Department factors into this, right?”
“I know. And a member of the White House staff. And that computer flash drive you told me about, the one you’ve been hiding . . . on your person. But don’t get ahead of yourself, Clare, because most of these early details are new to me. Keep the events in order.”
“Okay. Where did we leave off?”
“With Tom Landry.” Quinn’s eyebrow arched. “I believe he fumbled his pass at you. Or did that slip your mind already?”
“No. Older ladies like myself find caffeine boosts our memories . . .”
And with another hit of hot city roast, I refreshed my boyfriend’s memory on the second pass that came at me that night.
S ixteen
H UGGING myself against the February chill, I waited for Officer Landry’s cruiser to disappear around the corner. Then I turned to face my temporary home, one of five stately brick structures beautifully situated on a shady section of N Street.
Though I was an art school dropout (by way of an unplanned pregnancy), I was still captivated by distinctive architecture, and this lineup of town houses, known as Cox’s Row, was one of the country’s finest examples of Federal period design. I couldn’t help admiring the solid brick construction, exquisite dormers, and graceful white swags beneath the tall, black-shuttered windows.
The builder, John Cox, was a merchant, importer, and former mayor of Georgetown. He’d even served in the War of 1812, the same war in which Francis Scott Key, his M Street neighbor, wrote our national anthem. Soon after, the building I occupied became part of the Underground Railroad, that network of secret routes and safe houses run by brave abolitionists who’d defied the law to help slaves flee northward to freedom.
That’s what I loved about this DC neighborhood. Like Greenwich Village, every block seemed to have a tale to tell. But there was a difference. In New York those tales were about artists and writers; in Georgetown, the stories filled me with national pride.
Unlike most of the buildings in the area, the Cox’s Row homes were set back from the street, allowing patches of greenery to cheer up the severity of the lines.
In the wee hours of this morning, however, as I walked up the littledooryard of evergreen boxwood shrubs, I didn’t feel cheered. What I felt was trepidation—as if someone were watching me.
I’d left the porch light off, not wanting to call attention to my nocturnal activities. I now regretted that, as I fumbled for my keys in near-total darkness.
The Canadian hemlock shrouded the small raised porch in shadows and I felt a shiver. Was that the whisper of tree branches swaying? Or a stranger’s heavy breathing?
When I spun to find out, my spine turned to ice.
A man’s silhouette was leaning against the front wall’s red bricks. His broad-shouldered form had been hidden by the greenery, barely illuminated by the streetlight’s distant glow.
“Who’s there?!” I cried as my fingers frantically fished around my handbag. “Don’t come near me. I have Mace!”
“I know you have Mace, sweetheart. I gave it to you last Valentine’s Day.”
Out of the gloom stepped Mike Quinn.
“For heaven’s sake, Mike, you stopped my heart! What are you doing here?!”
“For starters? This—”
His palms were warm on my cheeks, his lips soft then hungry, like a man who’d been deprived for days. I didn’t mind the scratches from his five-o’clock shadow, but when his hands dropped lower and began to roam I caught his wrists.
“Mike, the neighbors . . .”
As I broke our embrace, the sandy stubble of
“Baltimore,” he finally murmured against my lips.
“I know . . .”
He started the engine and pulled away from the curb.
By now, night was falling fast. Soon the trees looked black to me, the road ahead unbearably dark—until Quinn flipped on the headlights and asked me to go on with my story.
“Which part?” I asked. “You know the State Department factors into this, right?”
“I know. And a member of the White House staff. And that computer flash drive you told me about, the one you’ve been hiding . . . on your person. But don’t get ahead of yourself, Clare, because most of these early details are new to me. Keep the events in order.”
“Okay. Where did we leave off?”
“With Tom Landry.” Quinn’s eyebrow arched. “I believe he fumbled his pass at you. Or did that slip your mind already?”
“No. Older ladies like myself find caffeine boosts our memories . . .”
And with another hit of hot city roast, I refreshed my boyfriend’s memory on the second pass that came at me that night.
S ixteen
H UGGING myself against the February chill, I waited for Officer Landry’s cruiser to disappear around the corner. Then I turned to face my temporary home, one of five stately brick structures beautifully situated on a shady section of N Street.
Though I was an art school dropout (by way of an unplanned pregnancy), I was still captivated by distinctive architecture, and this lineup of town houses, known as Cox’s Row, was one of the country’s finest examples of Federal period design. I couldn’t help admiring the solid brick construction, exquisite dormers, and graceful white swags beneath the tall, black-shuttered windows.
The builder, John Cox, was a merchant, importer, and former mayor of Georgetown. He’d even served in the War of 1812, the same war in which Francis Scott Key, his M Street neighbor, wrote our national anthem. Soon after, the building I occupied became part of the Underground Railroad, that network of secret routes and safe houses run by brave abolitionists who’d defied the law to help slaves flee northward to freedom.
That’s what I loved about this DC neighborhood. Like Greenwich Village, every block seemed to have a tale to tell. But there was a difference. In New York those tales were about artists and writers; in Georgetown, the stories filled me with national pride.
Unlike most of the buildings in the area, the Cox’s Row homes were set back from the street, allowing patches of greenery to cheer up the severity of the lines.
In the wee hours of this morning, however, as I walked up the littledooryard of evergreen boxwood shrubs, I didn’t feel cheered. What I felt was trepidation—as if someone were watching me.
I’d left the porch light off, not wanting to call attention to my nocturnal activities. I now regretted that, as I fumbled for my keys in near-total darkness.
The Canadian hemlock shrouded the small raised porch in shadows and I felt a shiver. Was that the whisper of tree branches swaying? Or a stranger’s heavy breathing?
When I spun to find out, my spine turned to ice.
A man’s silhouette was leaning against the front wall’s red bricks. His broad-shouldered form had been hidden by the greenery, barely illuminated by the streetlight’s distant glow.
“Who’s there?!” I cried as my fingers frantically fished around my handbag. “Don’t come near me. I have Mace!”
“I know you have Mace, sweetheart. I gave it to you last Valentine’s Day.”
Out of the gloom stepped Mike Quinn.
“For heaven’s sake, Mike, you stopped my heart! What are you doing here?!”
“For starters? This—”
His palms were warm on my cheeks, his lips soft then hungry, like a man who’d been deprived for days. I didn’t mind the scratches from his five-o’clock shadow, but when his hands dropped lower and began to roam I caught his wrists.
“Mike, the neighbors . . .”
As I broke our embrace, the sandy stubble of
Similar Books
