The Last of the Stanfields(51)

I glanced at my watch. It was seven thirty.

“Sure, I suppose. Why not?”

George Harrison took a seat, appearing just as uncomfortable as I was. He flagged down the waitress and asked me what I was drinking.

“Pimm’s,” I said.

“Any good?”

“Yes. But quite sweet.”

“I think I’ll go with a beer. And you?”

“The same, please.”

“Meaning . . . a beer?”

“No, another Pimm’s. Please.”

He took a breath. “So . . . what brings you to Baltimore?”

“Can’t you try something a bit more original? Maybe a question you don’t know the answer to?”

“Ha! And I’m the one who’s supposed to be good with comebacks? This round goes to you, hands down.”

“Now . . . your real name isn’t George Harrison, is it? Admit it, you’re an actor!”

“Actor? Me?” he said, laughing. “Never heard that one before. Does that mean you ripped off my favorite game?” He had a charming laugh. I had to give him points for that.

“Maybe. Maybe I did.”

“What else did you come up with?”

“I had painter, musician, filmmaker . . .”

“That sure is a lot of hats for one man to wear! Impressive, but wrong. I’m a carpenter. And George Harrison Collins is absolutely my real name. Sorry if that comes as a disappointment.”

“Disappointment? Not at all. It just means . . . you’re not as funny as I had hoped.”

“Well, isn’t that sweet.”

“Oh, no. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Don’t I get a second chance?”

“Afraid not, it’s a bit late for that. You came here on a date and now you’re hitting on me? I may be alone, but I’m nobody’s plan B.”

“Who said I was here on a date?”

“Okay, that point goes to you, but you’re still losing.”

“Can’t we call it a draw and stop keeping score? Anyway, for your information, I was not hitting on you, thank you very much. But just out of curiosity, since you’re obviously very fixated on first names: What’s his name? The guy who stood you up? You can trust me, you know. One plan B to another.”

“Fine, let’s call it a draw.”

“So, backing up. What brings you to Baltimore?”

“An article for my magazine. And you?”

“My father.”

“That’s who you’re waiting for?”

“Sort of. It’s who I had hoped would show up.”

“I have to admit that’s pretty bad, getting stood up by your own father. My dad would never dream of doing that. But couldn’t he just be running late?”

“I’ve been waiting for him for thirty-five years. I think ‘late’ might be a bit of an understatement.”

“Wow, that’s awful. I really am sorry.”

“Why are you sorry? It’s not your fault.”

“Well, I am nonetheless. I lost my mother last year and I know how much it hurts . . . to be missing a parent.”

“Let’s change the subject. Life is too short to dwell on pointless things like sadness and regret.”

“Well said.”

“I can’t take credit. My mother liked to say that. But enough about me. Your turn. What are you going to write about Baltimore?”

Moment of truth, Elby. Make a choice: Do you trust this man or not?

“Your lips are moving,” he said, “but no words are coming out.”

“You said you drove all night. Where were you coming from?”

“Magog. It’s a small city about an hour outside Montreal, in the Eastern Townships.”

“I know where Magog is,” I replied coldly.

“Of course you do. Writing for National Geographic must take you to the ends of the earth and back,” he continued, without noticing my change in tone. “It’s a beautiful area, huh? I don’t know what time of year you visited, but the scenery changes so dramatically, it’s almost like a different place depending on the season.”

“Yet . . . still in Canada . . . am I right?”

George Harrison just gaped at me like I was a total idiot.

“Yeah, sure . . . I guess,” he stammered. That clinched it. There was no longer any doubt in my mind.

“And how about the Canadian postal service? Is it top-notch?”

“Sure, I mean . . . I really don’t get much in the mail except bills.”

“Really? And what about the things you send?”

“I’m really sorry, but I just don’t know why you’re asking me this.”

“Let’s just say I’m trying to figure out what you’re playing at. Maybe it’s time you explained yourself.”

“Did I say something to offend you? I really didn’t mean to. Maybe it’s best I head back to my own table.”

I must have been face-to-face with the world’s best actor. Or, a modern-day Machiavelli.

“Great idea,” I told him. “In fact, I’ll come along. There’s something I’d like to show you.”