The Last of the Stanfields(50)

I was getting sick and tired of rehashing the same questions again, all the while trying to ignore the little voice in my head that kept reminding me just how frightened I was. I decided to make my way to Sailor’s Hideaway a bit earlier than necessary, hoping to get a lead on whoever would step through that door to meet me.



I walked in and asked for a table for two.

“Do you have a reservation?” the hostess asked. I always found it amusing when they asked that question in a half-empty restaurant.

“No . . . not that I know of,” I replied warily.

“Name?”

“Eleanor-Rigby.”

“Well, what do you know? Looks like we do have you in here.” Her words made my blood run cold. “Right this way, please.”

The hostess led me to the very same table beneath the photo. As we approached, I decided to improvise. I asked for a different table, pointing to one with a clear view of the door. For once, I would be one step ahead, thwarting the plans of the puppeteer who had pulled all the strings for quite some time. Now, all I had to do was wait for my poison-pen to walk in and sit down at the table originally assigned to me and then, well . . . from that point, I had no idea. I would cross that bridge when I came to it.

I got settled at the table and ordered a Pimm’s. After all, you can take the girl out of England . . . A couple walked in at approximately 6:55, most likely on their first date, judging by their awkward body language. At 6:57, two young women entered and chose a spot at the bar, neither seeming much like a conspirator. When 7:00 rolled around, there was still no one who fit the bill. Then, at 7:10, the door flew open and good old “George Harrison” from the hotel lobby burst in and rushed up to the hostess. Even though he was completely out of breath and disheveled, he looked a bit more presentable than earlier. I watched as he tucked his shirt into his trousers, straightened out his jacket, and ran his hand through his unkempt hair. He still hadn’t noticed me.

For reasons I couldn’t quite explain, I found his presence reassuring. I chalked it up to the feeling you get when you see a familiar face in a cold and unfamiliar setting. I kept my eyes glued to George Harrison, wishing I had a newspaper to hide behind to help me spy on him. I could just hear Maggie telling me again that I watch too much TV. Then, to my great surprise, another waitress led George Harrison right to the table reserved under my name! I watched breathlessly as he took his seat, while the voice in my head urged me to think things through before taking any action.

As far as I could see, there were two explanations. The most likely: George Harrison was the poison-pen himself, in the flesh. It fit perfectly. He was staying at the same hotel, and was now eating at the same restaurant. His performance in the lobby had been flawless, having totally convinced me that he didn’t recognize me in the slightest. Somehow, the idea hadn’t occurred to me during my guessing game in the cab. Yet, I heard the little voice in my head pushing another explanation: he simply wanted to have dinner at the closest decent spot, and the waitress led him to that table because it was free again. When the real poison-pen showed up, the hostess would surely lead him straight to me. I couldn’t say for certain which of the two possibilities frightened me more.

I watched him quietly for a full ten minutes, during which he checked his watch incessantly, sighing every time he did. He never once glanced at the menu. It was clear: he was waiting for someone. And that someone was me!

Suddenly, he rose and approached my table.

“Well, look who’s spying now. You’ve been staring at me since I walked in. And I didn’t even need a mirror to tell me that.”

“Uh-huh” was all I got out, just a faint grumble.

“Are you waiting for somebody?” George Harrison asked. I didn’t say a word. “That . . . wasn’t a trick question,” he continued, chuckling.

“Maybe I am. It depends,” I ventured, not letting my guard down.

“Oh, I get it,” he said, wiping the smile off his face.

“You get what?”

“Somebody stood you up.”

“Funny, I thought you were waiting for someone yourself.”

“Actually, I’m worried somebody may have been waiting for me and then left because I was late,” he said, eyes on his watch once more.

George Harrison scratched his forehead, a habit I’ve observed in men when something is troubling them. My own go-to tic is twisting and twirling my hair around my index finger. Who was I to judge?

“I drove the whole night to be here for this, only to pass out like a fool in my hotel room. I overslept,” he said with a sigh.

“Call her and apologize.”

“I would if I knew how.”

“Oh, I get it.”

“Get what?”

“Not a very smooth move, showing up late for a blind date. But let me set your mind at ease: you were the one who got here first. I’ve been here for a half hour and haven’t seen anyone who fits the bill, unless you pick up your women in pairs, in which case, your dates are seated at the bar.” He still looked troubled.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t tease. I didn’t mean anything by it. Bottom line: your date never came, so either she’s the one running late, or . . . you’ve been stood up.”

“Fair enough. Since it seems I’m not the only one who got left high and dry, any chance I could sit down with you for a bit while I wait?”