Marvin's Garden

Most mornings she walked past the painting without seeing it. Some days she chose not to see it. But she wasn’t up at three a.m. most mornings, anxiously polishing furniture, her eyes turning often to the security monitor by the door telecasting the main entrance below.

She stared at the painting now. From time to time, in an unguarded moment, she would see it anew and be struck again by its power to fling her backward and sideways into girlhood. Clay assumed her purchase, years ago, was out of a sense of maternal obligation to support his work. She was fine with this, preferring that he not guess how personal the portrait – of a young woman she’d never met but felt she knew intimately – was to her. But now he was forever offering to take it off her hands, “It’s not one of my best works, Mother.” “Better that it stays out of circulation then and not mar your reputation,” she would snap. Which reminded her: What was she going to do with the charcoal he’d given her last week?

“Maureen’s Garden.” It still leaned against the sideboard where she’d set it after he’d left. She hadn’t found a suitable spot for it, nor did she think she ever would. Now there was maternal obligation. She didn’t have the heart to tell him she didn’t like the portrait, that it frankly irritated her. She wished he’d drawn the rock garden and all its peaceful spareness without imposing her face into it. Fine for young people to feel that the aging process ennobled one; these days she felt only its betrayal and restrictions.

She glanced again at the security screen. Nothing.

This was ridiculous. Ridiculous to think that Clay, at his age, would turn to her in his grief, however ominously her former husband had tinged the circumstances. It wouldn’t be the first time Snow had exaggerated his own role in random occurrences, his sense of self-importance often reaching mythic proportions. She was going back to bed.

But as she turned down the hall to her room, the buzzer sounded, a long, amplified insect’s drone. She hurried, as much as one bad hip would let her, to the monitor by the door, in time to see the gate swinging closed against a bent, leather-jacketed arm. Clay? Who else would have a key?

As she waited anxiously for the sound of the elevator’s arrival in the hall outside, another figure appeared on the screen. Hooded, huddled and furtive, it approached the entryway and leaned in – perhaps to peer nearsightedly at the names on the plaque. The camera registered only a blur of dark clothing. The figure backed away, head turned so only the hood was visible, then seemed to meld into the narrow darkness between street lamps. Maureen shivered.

A rapping on the front door and a female voice called out her name. It was a voice she recognized but was confused to hear again. Through the keyhole she could see her son’s slack body held up by a woman, the reporter who’d interviewed her some weeks previous.

Her fingers fumbled with the locks; her heart pounded unsteadily. At last the door was open and she stepped back as the reporter – she couldn’t recall her name – shouldered her son in through the entryway. “Spare room?”

Maureen pointed down the hall. “First door on the left. Is he hurt?”

The reporter, Bishop – her last name suddenly latching itself to the forefront of Maureen’s brain – shook her head and grimaced. “Drunk mostly. But his hand needs some attention.”

Together the two women laid Clay’s binge-weighted body out on the bed. Maureen retrieved a first aid kit while Bishop examined his knuckles for remnants of the tavern mirror with which he’d obviously battled.

She watched the reporter wrap a bandage around Clay’s hand and wondered at the relationship between her son and this woman. How did they know one another? It didn’t seem to be a romantic attachment on the reporter’s part – if indeed she was a reporter. Maureen confessed to herself that she’d only half believed the woman’s story, even with her press card and self-assured reference to a local monthly. Were they friends? How had they met? Was Clay another assignment?

Ultimately, what obligation did she have to this woman?

Doctoring done, Bishop was at the front door, pulling on the jacket she had shed earlier.

“Can I get you something? Tea? Coffee?” She knew her offer sounded half-hearted

“No, I should take off. I’ve got work to finish.”

“You shouldn’t leave.” There, she’d said it.

“I’m sorry?” Bishop turned carefully, not attempting to mask her impatience.

“There’s someone down, or there was. I think you were followed. He might still be there.”

“Who are you talking about?”

“I don’t know. I saw him on the screen after you and Clay came through the gate.” She pointed to the monitor. “My ex… Clay’s father called. Before you and Clay got here. He was looking for Clay, he was worried, almost...” She let the sentence dangle, not wanting to admit aloud the anguish she’d kept herself from hearing.

“Snow called. Looking for Clay?”

Maureen nodded. “I tend to think he overdramatizes everything, but maybe this time… He seems to think, this accident, the woman who was killed -- he seems to think it wasn’t an accident. And I think, I’m afraid, well, he didn’t say this, but he hinted…”

“He thinks Clay’s next.” The reporter closed her eyes, leaned against the wall, shoulders slack in sudden weariness, and Maureen’s chest constricted. She shivered again, couldn’t stop shivering. This woman knew things. Things she didn’t want to know. What had Snow gotten her son into?

Wait for it!

64:2:1=1 is currently on hiatus.

In the Pines, In the Pines(Pawn H1 to H3)

The night was dark, threatened rain again. In a quiet corner of downtown one bar sent its soft amber glow out into the sidewalks and a sole neon sign advertising a cheap Milwaukee lager flashed blue and red intermittently. Inside, smoke and the smell of a fryer and the crackle of pool balls. An old jukebox woefully shuffling away the hours until close.

"My girl, my girl, don't lie to me..."

Clay sat at the worn and pitted bar. Cigarette burns under old coats of varnish, the wooden edge worn smooth by generations of working class elbows, down-and-out forearms.

"Tell me where did you sleep last night?"

A small collection of shot glasses. A cigarette burning in an overflowing ashtray.

"In the pines, in the pines,
Where the sun don't ever shine,
I would shiver the whole night through."

Lacey stubbed another smoke out and leaned back on her chair. Cool blue light filtered through the small window that looked out onto the brick firewall across the alley. She held her hands against her face and her body shook again.

Outside her door, her employees listen to the sound of sobbing and the unending rhythmic squeak of a chair.

"My girl, my girl, where will you go?
I'm going where the cold wind blows."

Snow poured himself a single malt and loosened his tie. He fell into his leather recliner and turned on the television. Scotch had long since ceased to burn his throat. He savored its peat and smooth fire. It reminded him of Ireland, the moors and green fields and the sweep and scent of rain coming off the Atlantic waves. Maureen loved that smell, he remembered her with that smell, she was inseparable from that smell and the movement of the breeze in her hair. It was in Ireland where he'd really begun to understand her.

He hadn't been back since the affair.

"In the pines, in the pines
Where the sun don't ever shine..."

Clay downed a fifth shot and asked for another. He wasn’t his father and his eyes watered, his face flushed, the room wobbled around his bar-stool. His fingers traced a pattern on the wood grain, played with the water rings, and drummed on the stained empty glasses.

A coaster lay torn in a hundred tiny pieces.

"...I would shiver the whole night through."

Bishop sat at her kitchen table, pouring over notes and accounts and a stack of black and white 8x10's. Leadbelly played on a little radio. His scratchy voice comforted her, helped her concentrate. She recorded a list of figures into a notebook and rubbed her eyes, unaware that her hands moved in time with the guitar. Between the pops and hisses of the old recording the rain began to tap on the roof, and she walked into the kitchen to open an empty fridge.

"My girl, my girl, don't lie to me,
Tell me where did you sleep last night?"

From the office the wailing had ceased, replaced instead with a low murmur as from a conversation that rose and fell in volume and in concert with the rain. It was long past midnight. One of the employees knocked on the door. Silence, then the murmur again, steady, rhythmic, hypnotic. The employees looked at each other, then picked up their coats and left. The one who locked the door did so quietly and carefully, as though he were sealing the lid of a heavy pine box.

"In the pines, in the pines,
Where the sun don't ever shine,
I would shiver the whole night through."

The news came on. Top story: another accident. Advocates up in arms. Traffic safety. Snow tipped the decanter. A golden brown cascade over ice, three fingers. Anna Murray died on the scene. Snow's head snapped around. Witnesses say the driver didn't stop. He slowly walked to the television. 911 calls indicate the driver ran a red light. He sank to his knees. How could this happen in broad daylight? Yes, how could it? How could it?

"My girl, my girl, where will you go?
I'm going where the cold wind blows."

The rain brought with it cold and though at first it kept Bishop alert, she soon rose to close the window. She reached over the couch and heard the tinkling of a homeless man's bag of recyclable cans. Otherwise, the streets were quiet. The window clicked when it latched.

"My girl, my girl, don't lie to me,
Tell me where did you sleep last night?"

Clay stared at himself in the restroom mirror until it shattered in a star pattern and blood ran from his fingers in rivulets. He stood there blinking stupidly, looking at his knuckles. A hand twisted his collar and gripped his shoulder and spun him around into the door frame. The taste of iron filled his mouth. The bartender threw him into the pool table and pushed him through the door and Clay fell down on the sidewalk into the arms of the soft receiving rain.

"In the pines, in the pines,
Where the sun don't ever shine..."

Snow was already working feverishly at his computer, the screen illuminating his furrowed brow. His planner lay open by his right hand, his left gripped a pen that he twirled absent-mindedly as he typed, took notes, and made calls to people whose displeasure at being woken up so early in the morning was repressed by the anguish in the old man's voice.

"...I would shiver the whole night through."

A frail wraith-like shadow slid down the downtown streets like a thief seeking the darkest corners. None could have guessed its purpose or the reason for its huddled, hurried gait. Night seemed to pour into it and become lost, trapped in a vacuum never to escape. Even the streetlight's sodium glare was unable to penetrate that closed, contained form, which held within it the dark ruined circles where late a bright star shone.

"My girl, my girl, where will you go?
I'm going where the cold wind blows."

With his left hand Clay dug his cell phone out of his right pocket. His right hand hung useless, bloody and inflamed. The numbers didn't come easily, to memory or to kinetics. His hand worked only as a model of potential energy, some wounded thing sleeping away a painful night from which dawn might draw peace, or yet more pain.

"In the pines, in the pines
Where the sun don't ever shine -

She reached for her cell without taking her eyes from her notes.

"Hello?... What?

Where are you?"

- I would shiver... the whole... night through."

A Wet Dog (G7 to G6)

Hey, Preacher girl. How’s my pooch? D'you miss me? Yeah, I think you missed me. Woah, dog, you stink and you're wet. D'you go swimming?

Yo, you didn’t let her in the river, did you? Man, I told you not to. You know what’s in that river? Fuckin’ acid rain, man. Fuckin’ mercury and PCBs. DDT. You name it, the fish are swimming in it.

I should send you swimming, you bench hog. Scoot over. Yeah, well, fuck you. You would be too, you seen what I seen today. You hear about what happened downtown? No, the hit and run. You didn’t hear about it? Man, it was cold–blooded.

No it wasn’t. I don’t care what Kneecap say. Cap don’t know shit. This was cold man. Co-old.

Yeah, you know, I got that gig over there across from the bank. I told you about it before, didn’t I? Some crazy-ass dude – thinks he’s Deep-Throat or something – been paying me to keep track of when this guy leaves for lunch, how long he’s gone, who he hangs with, shit like that. Boring. But hell, I’ll take the money.

So I’m outside waiting for my mark to make an exit, and I’m just thinking that he’s kind-a late, ’cause the bank’s already closed – closes early on Saturdays, and he normally doesn’t take so long to lock up and get out of there. And I’m kind-a checkin’ out other folks on the street, people chillin’ on a Saturday. And I notice this chick on a bike pedaling past, and I don’t even know why my eyes follow her but they do. I remember thinking she looked really good on that bike, you know, like a natural, like in her element.

Oh, blow me. That’s ’cause you never been in your element, you wouldn’t know it if it rained on you.

Anyway, I see she’s coming to the intersection, and I also see this SUV – it’s a 4Runner, which I’d locked onto earlier, ’cause I like to keep tabs on the vehicles parked nearby – this 4Runner’s pulling out and the driver’s stepping on it, and just as I’m rolling my eyes thinking, oh yeah, hot rod there gonna gun it to the stoplight, he’s running through the light and plowing into this chick on the bike. And it’s like, “you asshole,” but I don’t even have time to think that. ’cause just like that, the bike’s flying and she’s flying and she’s flipping over the top of the SUV and man, I did not want to see what happened. But it’s like it happened so fast, I couldn’t even turn away and you know, her body’s falling and I swear I could hear bones snapping, but I know that ain’t true ’cause there’s all kinds of cars screeching and people screaming and shouting, even I’m screaming. Some guy’s running after the 4Runner hollering, but it’s like where’s a traffic jam when you need one? The driver just creams out of there. Another guy throws his coffee at it, but it don’t even come close. Fucking twisted rat bastard. But I’m thinking I don’t care, ’cause I got his number, man.

But man, that girl. You never seen anything so twisted. There’s a group of us, we’re all crowdin' around the body, but like I don’t know why, ’cause man, I did not want to see that. And it don’t seem real, man. It’s like I just seen this chick and she’s beautiful and then it’s like… like fuckin’ Picasso took a live body and mangled it for real instead of just on canvas. Face looking front and profile, limbs bent like they ain’t never supposed to be bent. A woman says she’s a doctor and people clear a path for her, but it’s like there’s blood leaking out this chick’s nose and mouth, and we all know it’s not a doctor she’s needing.

People been pouring out of the stores and apartments to see what’s going on. Cops ain’t nowhere to be seen yet, but everybody’s on their cell phones calling it in and shouting out, “Anybody catch the license plate?” and I hear myself chiming in like some Dudley Do-right, “I got it!”

But then I notice my mark’s finally come out of the bank. And it’s like at first, he isn’t even too interested in what’s going on, but then I see him ask somebody what happened. And then he’s pushing his way in to see the body. And then it’s weird what he does. ’Cause I swear he gets all pale and I’m thinking well what’d you expect, don’t look if blood makes you faint, you dickhead. But it isn’t like that. ’Cause then he’s looking all around, scared like, like suddenly everybody around him might have some contagious disease, and he just starts backing out and away from the crowd and then he’s got like his briefcase up to his chest and he starts trottin’ backwards, and I’m about to follow him, but there’s somebody pulling my sleeve saying, “This is the guy’s got the license number,” and next thing you know there’s this cop and he wants to know what I got written down, and so I’m stuck there trying to explain to him why I’ve got a notebook full of dates and times and license plate numbers and shit.

Jesus, what a day. What a fuckin’ day.

C’mon pooch. Let’s go get some din-din. Yo, thanks for watching her. I’ll catch up with you later. And man, I’m telling you, don’t go dunkin’ into that river. That shit will kill you.

Out on the Weekend (Knight B1 to C3)

Anna raced over the Hawthorne Bridge into downtown, pedaling her single-speed through light weekend traffic towards the Pearl. The streets were slick with rain, and in the still-gray morning gloom the orange safety cones resembled mushrooms freshly sprouted from the industrial earth. A long black car pulled up next to her, the window rolled down, and James Snow leaned out into the breeze.

She forced a smile and panted a greeting.

“Late again, Anna?”

“I might beat you there.”

Snow laughed. His hair was white, his teeth were white, his famous white shirt flapped in the breeze. “We’ll see about that,” he said. He waved to his driver, and the car sped up and pulled away. Anna flipped a finger towards the tinted rear window.

“Pompous asshole.”

She walked into the meeting at five after, all elbows and thin legs and hair matted to her temples from her bike helmet and her pants cuff still rolled up high. Snow was talking to other gallery owners in the corner, but looked up as Anna passed and sat across from Lacey. “You’re late again!” she whispered angrily. “You need to be here on time. Snow is pissed!”

Anna shrugged and mouthed the word sorry as Snow called the meeting to order. “First let me remind everyone of the need to meet our professional obligations to each other, and to treat each other as partners, and with respect. If some of you ran your businesses the way you attend these meetings, well then, I think you might find yourself running a “late” business, don’t you think?”

There were a few uncomfortable chuckles, as always. Anna wrinkled her nose and squinted. Lacey coughed into her first. “Sir, Anna was on assignment for me this morning, and it was my fault she was slightly late.” Which was the truth, but the omission burned in the silence like a flaming hoop.

Snow leaned forward on his fists. “Lacey, my dear, you’re a terrible liar. You might have been able to lie to men once, but you're not in show-business any more and you forget who you’re speaking to. I don’t give a shit about your projects. We’re here to make money, not run errands. Now, may we get started?”

This time there were no chuckles. Lacey smiled and looked at her notes, though Anna watched her ears redden and her chest flush in the triangle between the first button and her fleshy collar bones. Both women knew Snow could put their gallery out of business with his rent, and neither wanted anything more than to make it independently of this giant, who secretly and not so secretly controlled much of the art district’s property, both through his fortune and his connections to the business alliance, the artist’s community, and the city commissioners. Snow had begun talking about endowments and using space in what he called “his” galleries to highlight who he thought of as “his” artists. But Anna wasn’t listening; she’d tuned out the drone of the old man and was reliving last night’s mess of arranged fabrics and paint and Clay’s naked body. She jumped when she felt Lacey’s toes against her ankle.

Lacey’s mouth was straight and she stared pointedly at Snow while he rambled and she slid her foot up to Anna’s knee. Anna carefully removed her own shoe, and slouched in her chair to reach for Lacey's fishnets. She hooked her finger in her mouth and saw that Greg from 2Lip was trying to look like he wasn't staring. Snow, as always, was oblivious, even when Lacey sighed heavily, tilted her head back and bared her throat, and stretched her arms by locking her fingers together behind her head.

They met afterwards in the stairwell, alone. The stairs were wide and made of old recycled building beams and the walls were brick and original and supported by massive steel girders. Sunlight fell through skylights and on the second-floor landing Lacey turned to Anna and kissed her deeply.

“I miss you.”

“I can’t today. I promised him I’d be there.”

“Cancel, then. For me.”

“I can’t.”

“Then let’s get a quick drink. You can tell me all about it.”

“I don’t have time, I’m sorry. I really am. It won’t be much longer.” Anna looked away and stepped to the top of the stairs.

"Snow is getting suspicious."

Anna's head tilted to one side, her hair an auburn cascade in the sun. "Snow can go to hell. I'm doing this for us."

"Yeah. Right. Just how is Knight doing, anyway?"

Anna turned and came back and embraced her lover. She ran her fingers through her spiked hair and bent her mouth to her ear. "We need this. I know how hard it is. Just another week or so. I'm close, I know. He doesn't know anything.” She paused. “And I'm not falling for him."

"I miss you," repeated Lacey in Anna's neck.

"Ditto." Anna straightened up and let go. "You've got nothing to worry about."

"Call me?"

"Of course."

“He’s a biter too, huh?” asked Lacey. Anna touched her neck at the shoulder and smiled. “I’ve trained him,” she said, and she waved goodbye boss before disappearing down the stairs. Lacey watched her go and leaned on the polished banister, listening to the footsteps echo up the well. She lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and blew the thin smoke towards the ceiling, where it rose steadily in the light until it, too, disappeared.

Outside, Anna unlocked her bike and hopped on the seat. Despite the argument she was happy. She was used to her boss’s insecurities; she found them endearing. The clouds had broken up and the sun was warm on her face, and she thought of the warmth of Lacey’s mouth, the warmth of her scent. She pedaled through the Pearl, past the big bookstore and towards the river. Pedestrians filled the sidewalks as the rain evaporated, mothers with strollers and men walking dogs, joggers in spandex, shoppers with expensive coats and large bags, teenagers in groups, some happy and some dangerous looking, listless and bored teens stuck with their parents, bikers with ponytails, hipsters in tight pants and wild hair, the homeless with their cans and carts, weekend-shift construction workers in dirty jeans and muddy steel-toes, skateboarders and handsome young professionals with beards and 70's button-ups and black glasses, a crew of rabbis all in black, the grocers in aprons and the store clerks in slacks, all the variety of the city on display as the sun cleared the dreary apartments and tenement hotels and high-rises and burbs and the pulsing streets grew vibrant with pigeons and people and reflected sunlight, the old city reflected in the new glass, the wide avenues and one-ways lined with beech and oak and from an intersection an SUV ran through a red light and clipped the front of Anna’s bike and she somersaulted over the hood, the glass reflecting the clouds, the clouds, the shattering clouds, the tall buildings rising steadily in the light until they too disappeared.

Barefoot in the Mud (Bishop C8 to G4)

Who knew that “you’re disgusting” would be such a successful pickup line? Maybe it was the name she’d used preceding it. His father’s name. Yet he’d answered to it. Corrected her, but not immediately. As for herself, she’d given him her assignment name.

He’s not what everyone thinks; he may not even be what he thinks. What did he think, this unnervingly earnest young man?

They had gone to a bar of his choosing. He got points for “keeping it real.” It wasn’t one of the hipster spots where the current crew of loft artists hung out, but a chipped-tile hole in the wall with good grub and a decent assortment of microbrews. They sat in a booth in a dark corner and he ordered a beer while she’d asked for a martini, stirred.

“So we work for the same client. Are you a contract employee or regular hire?”

Donning a loose Mae West, she had answered, “Listen doll, there’s nothing regular about me.”
He smiled – was that a blush? “I don’t doubt it. You’re on assignment then.” Nodding to her camera bag. “Photographer?”

Her head tilted, assessing him. “When I need to be.” She seemed to be weighing something, and he noticed her arm, which rested casually over the envelope on the table, shift a fraction.
“And is that what our client needs you to be?”

The waitress brought their drinks and Bishop waited until he’d taken a swallow of his beer. “I saw one of your paintings today.”

“Really? Where?”

“I can’t remember what it was called. It’s of a young woman, a girl almost, standing in water near the bank of a river. Mud and silt squished between her toes. She’s wearing a skirt and a long sweater, and the sweater’s pockets are filled with rocks. She’s holding two smooth, flat stones in her hands and she’s looking out towards the middle of the river. And it’s when you follow her gaze that you notice the dying ripples of a skipped stone.”

“What were you doing at my mother’s house?”

“It was something like Sierra on the River’s Edge.”

“How do you know my mother?”

“No, not Sierra – Serena? No, was it Seanna? Something like that.”

“Sienna, at the River’s Edge.”

“Sienna. Yes. That was it.” She took a sip of her martini. “Was that her real name?”

“Do you ever answer other people’s questions?”

“Ahh. Well done! See what a nice trick it is? You ought to employ it more often; save a bit of yourself for you.”

“No. It was the color she reminded me of.”

His voice and eyes held a direct challenge, and it was then that she had made her decision. She stood, leaving the envelope on the table and nodding at him.

“I think you should have a look.”

He paused, his eyes still meeting hers, before picking up the envelope and pulling out a manila file. The top document seemed to be a report, the subject of which was… him.

“What is this? Where did you…”

“Go to the back.” At the bottom of the file a series of 8x10 photographs. Anna. The loft. His face flushed a deep shade of cabernet.

“Our client didn’t need me as a photographer. Apparently they have one already.”

“Who are you?”

She could only shake her head before turning to leave. “I’ll be in touch.”

Marvin's Garden (Knight from G1 to F3)

"Mommy, what's that man doing?"

"He's drawing the rock garden, sweetie. Let's be quiet and leave him alone, okay?"

But the child pulled away and ran to Snow and stood in the sun, casting a shadow across the heavy ivory paper.

Knight looked up and smiled. "Hey there. What's your name?"

"I'm Marvin. Whatcha doin'?"

"I'm drawing a picture. Want to see?" Snow held out the sheet, hair and neck criss-crossed and shaded with charcoal, thick black lines curving into cheekbones and dark eyes.

Marvin looked down. "Mommy said you were drawing the rocks. That doesn't look like the rocks."

Knight paused and turned from the boy to the white sand carefully raked around small black pillars of stone. The evening sun cast long shadows and warmed the moss into vibrancy. Then Knight turned back. The boy's mother stood just behind her son.

"Marvin, how old are you?"

"I'm five years old and this many." He held up a hand, chubby fingers spread wide.

"Well, Marvin," said Knight slowly, "this is a picture of a woman who is almost 76 years old. She's my mother. She loves this garden. She loves to come here, but she can't now because she hurt herself falling down."

Knight paused. "In many ways this is her garden, and when I look at these rocks I think of her. So that's what I'm drawing."

"Oh," Marvin said. "But this is my garden."

Marvin's mother leaned over and took his hand. "Okay, sweetie, it's time to go. Let's leave the nice man alone." She smiled at Knight and turned away quickly when he smiled back. His eyes darted to her index finger and he let his gaze follow her as she led Marvin up the boulder-lined path above the rock garden.

"Bye," called Marvin. Both he and his mother waved. He waved back. She was still smiling as they disappeared behind a cherry tree.

When he looked back towards the garden the woman from the office stood a few feet to his right. She held a large envelope and her camera bag was slung over her shoulder. "Snow," she said, "you're disgusting."

The sun fell across her face, and Knight found he could not meet her eyes. Instead he looked down and saw her calves, the slender trunks of trees, and the antennae and spires of skyscrapers beyond, his father's among them.

"Who are you?"

"I wanted to ask you the same question."

"I asked first. You followed me here. Or at least you found me here." Knight set his drawing board carefully down and stood slowly. His eyes met hers level and steady. "And the name is Knight, Clay Knight. So?"

She held his eyes for a moment until the wind picked up and she ran her thin fingers through long hair. "My name is Bishop. Emily Bishop. We're working for the same... client. I saw you the other day at the office."

"Which doesn't explain why you're standing here now."

She tucked the envelope under arm and thrust her hands deep into her pockets. "I shouldn't be standing here."

"Then I suppose it doesn't matter if I ask you to have a drink with me."

Bishop glanced away but Knight saw a smile, just a slight upturn of her lip that he sensed was the first honest thing about her, the one thing he'd come to remember most about this first meeting, the first thing he fell in love with and most deeply.

"Yes," she said, "yes," and as Knight gathered his supplies, covering his drawing with paper and stuffing it all into a rucksack, she congratulated herself that the ploy had worked so easily.