Sheila seemed to be saying exactly what Henry Conyers had implied. I resisted the temptation to back away.

      “You don’t want to believe me, but it all fits together,” she said. “How else could you meet someone like me who is looking for someone like you?”

      Helpless to protest, I let Sheila lead me to the parking lot. It was clear that I was being manipulated, and yet common sense told me that the proposed arrangement was unique. A free apartment and a stimulating job were not easily had, if only temporarily. There was one problem: Martin’s promised loaner had not yet materialized.

      Sheila must have read my mind. “You’ll have a company car, of course.”

      It seemed too perfect, too pat, but my ability to reason was exhausted. I knew only that I had been transported physically and mentally from despair to a yen for adventure.

      During the drive to Tyson’s Corner, the rain subsided and the fog lifted to offer a dramatic view of Cameron Terrace. Inside the sleek apartment building, a bird-cage elevator rose jauntily from the lobby.

      Sheila giggled as we soared to the ninth floor. “Isn’t this fun? This building was designed by an architect better known for his posh hotels. I convinced him to create something sensational for us. Ah, here we are.” She motioned me out of the elevator and toward a door flanked by palms stretching toward a skylight.

      We entered a living room elegantly arrayed in Italian damasks. Plush carpeting extended down a long hallway to a bedroom. Beyond the formal dining area, a kitchen gleamed with stainless steel. Sheila drew open the draperies to reveal a balcony with a view of glass office buildings. Their facades reflected streets bustling with cars and pedestrians. The ambiance resembled a stage set designed for a sophisticated comedy.
Sheila studied my face expectantly. “Do you like it? Is it comfortable enough for you?”

      “It’s lovely! I’ll be more than comfortable here.”

      “I hoped it would please you. Now don’t fret about supper. I’ll have it sent in. And tomorrow morning, someone from the office will pick you up about nine. Please feel free to use the phone. I know you’ll need to tell your friend in Florida not to expect you as planned.”

      I managed a genuine smile. “Thank you for everything. Will I see you tomorrow?”

      She shrugged. “Perhaps not. I’ll be at the main office most of the day, but you’ll be in capable hands. Burke, my son, is office manager of the McLean branch. He’ll indoctrinate you.”

      Even before Sheila left, I began to tremble. Was Burke Cameron the son Martin had mentioned so derisively? If there was a catch to all of the good fortune being forced upon me due to my own negligence, perhaps the prospect of encountering Burke Cameron was a logical reason for refusing Sheila’s offer.
I said as much to Meg when I reached her later that evening. “This seems too orchestrated to be legitimate,” I concluded.

      “It sounds fabulous to me, and if I were you, I’d be sitting on a cloud,” Meg said. “You’re overly suspicious. That’s what comes from being exposed to all those CIA and FBI folks who creep around the Senator’s office. By the way, one came around last week.”

      “One what?”

      “A spook. One of those anonymous men in black who follow up on security clearances.”

      "That’s because I’m scheduled for an upgrade as soon as my promotion is approved. They must be contacting everyone I gave as a reference. What did he ask?”

      “The usual. He wanted to make sure you’re a gung ho patriot. I liked him a lot better than the others who’ve been around in the past.”

      “Why so?”

      “His voice reminded me of Robert Goulet in ‘Camelot.’”

      I laughed aloud. “You and your Broadway idols. And did he resemble Sir Lancelot?”

      “It was hard to tell beneath those shades, but he fairly oozed muscles.”

      “Don’t they all.”

      “He was different, Amanda, not the least bit conceited and aloof like most of them. And he was very sympathetic with your situation.”

      I stiffened. “My situation? What do you mean?”

      “He asked about Craig, and how his death affected you.”

      “That’s curious. I wasn’t aware they get that personal.”

      “I assured him you aren’t pining away and are capable of throwing yourself into any task you’re handed. I explained that you discovered you weren’t in love with Craig, but stayed to the end because you didn’t want to hurt him.”

      “I wish you hadn’t gone into that. You’re the only one I’ve told. It’s nobody else’s business.”

      “It was all right, Amanda. He said he understood perfectly, and he even seemed relieved. He also wondered what you plan to do about your performing career. I told him I’ll try to convince you to start again.”

      I spoke sharply. “You know that’s not practical.” 

      “Maybe not, but when you come down we can revive our duets on the marvelous grand piano in the hotel lobby. Nothing like romantic tunes to lure some of the great looking, eligible bachelors staying here.”
“You won’t give up, will you, Meg? It might help if I knew an eligible bachelor right now because, the way things are, I won’t get to Florida until I pay for the car repairs.”

      “In the meantime, though, you might meet some great prospects.”

      “I seriously doubt that,” I said, as my mind drifted once more to the unpleasant prospect of meeting Burke Cameron. 

© 2004 Emily Pritchard Cary. All Rights Reserved. Contact Emily Cary at