Mr.Churchill's Secretary(13)
The music had changed into a waltz, and John and Sarah glided together. She was amazing, Maggie thought, all long legs and sinuous arms, her dark hair floating behind her.
“Take a look at Fred and Ginger,” David said at her elbow, as if reading her mind. “Don’t they look fabulous?” Maggie had to admit that they did—whirling, spinning, and twirling. When the song ended, they wandered back to the table.
“Why can’t we do something like that at the Wells?” Sarah said breathlessly as she sat down. “Instead of bloomin’ Giselle all the time.”
“But you’d make a beautiful Giselle!” Paige exclaimed.
“Yes, I would,” Sarah replied. “And I wouldn’t complain so much if I actually were Giselle and not ‘second peasant girl to the left.’ ”
They laughed, and Sarah slipped her red high heels from her feet and began to massage them. Maggie gasped at seeing her toes—bunion s distended their shape, and they were covered with calluses and barely healed blisters.
“Yeah, gorgeous, aren’t they? That’s what you get for wearing those pretty pink satin slippers.” Maggie considered Sarah with newfound respect.
She glanced at Paige, who was flirting shamelessly with Simon, her hand ruffling his hair; David and John, engrossed in political debate; and Sarah, who was talking intently with Chuck and Nigel. As the light glimmered on the golden trumpets, she realized the day—and evening—had gone rather well, all things considered.
Suddenly, unbidden, her thoughts flashed to the late Diana Snyder. The poor girl, Maggie thought. And she’ll never know any of this.
FOUR
THE MAY MORNING threatened rain. A cool wind blew from the east, and a few birds chirped in alarm.
People walked with a hurried step along Herrick Street in Pimlico, and a few plump, gray pigeons flapped down and took shelter under the roof of a café. The sky opened abruptly and cold rain poured down, drenching a group of rowdy soldiers as they made their way down oil-stained streets, passing reddish-brown brick buildings in the growing darkness of the storm. Under the heaviness of the water droplets, flowering trees wept pale pink petals down into the gutters.
A young woman, caught without an umbrella, dashed under the eaves of a building, desperate for cover. Grimacing, she looked up at the sky. The rain drummed loudly on the overhang and flooded down the verdigris gutter pipes.
“Are you coming in, miss?”
She looked up to see a gentleman in a well-tailored gray suit. He had thick, white hair, rosy cheeks, and dimples that made him look younger than his years. “Are you coming in?” he repeated.
“Oh, no.”
“It’s not going to let up, I’m afraid,” he said, shaking his head.
She sighed.
“You know,” the man said, “I’m going to be speaking here in a few minutes. Why don’t you come in and have a listen? It’ll get you out of the rain, at least.”
The young woman looked from his face up to the sign above his left shoulder. The Saturday Club, it read. Today’s Discussion: Whose War Is It, Anyway?
“ ‘Whose war’?” she asked. “The Saturday Club—what is it?”
“We’re, well, we like to think of ourselves as … pacifists. After all, no one wants this war. Do you?”
“No, of course not.”
Their eyes met, and she gave him a smile in return.
He opened the door for her. With another look up at the leaden sky, she turned and allowed herself to be escorted inside.
“Neil, how many?” the white-haired man asked.
“Almost thirty, Mr. Pierce,” replied a younger man at a battered wooden table, hastily scribbling the last names. A few angry red spots of acne dotted his chin.
“Let’s get on with it, then,” he said, giving the woman another smile. “Please stay?”
“Yes,” she said, unpinning her hat and smoothing her hair. “I think I will.”
The young woman took a seat at the back of the room and looked around. The yellow paint on the walls was chipped and scuffed. Worn black linoleum covered the floor, and the ceiling was water-stained. The audience was made up of mostly middle-aged, middle-class women and a few older men. The humid air was rank with strong Oriental perfume and liniment. The woman looked up as the man walked through the room and up to the podium.
“Thank you all for coming today,” he said, turning and smiling reassuringly. “My name is Malcolm Pierce, and I’m the president of the Saturday Club. I’m happy to see familiar faces in the audience—and a few new ones as well.” He winked at the young woman, who smiled in return.