Chapter 1

Maggie slipped into the Fine Arts Building through a side door and quickly took her place at the refreshment table. She’d been too involved in the novel she was reading to watch the time properly and so was a few minutes late, but apparently no one noticed.

She glanced around the gallery at the small clusters of Ole Miss professors and prominent citizens dotting the floor and realized that even though she was late, the guest of honor at this, the grand opening of his first ever international photographic exhibition, was even later.

Where are the heroes of yesteryear? she wondered, and in an effort to suppress her disappointment, withdrew the book from under her blazer and rested it discreetly on the table in front of her. The magnolia leaves surrounding the punch bowl would hide the book from anyone except those who came to the table for refreshments, and she had a large cloth napkin in position to take care of that situation whenever it should arise. It seemed appropriate, she thought, that The Spy Who Came in from the Cold should have a good hiding place here among the enemy – as well as a Plan B in case of imminent discovery.

Maggie scanned the room once more, then opened her book and quietly escaped into the world of British spydom. She was thoroughly immersed in a barrage of bullets flying across East Berlin when a warm, strong hand encircled her wrist.

“Bring your book and let’s go,” urged a voice to match, and Maggie knew she had been found.

Lost, her mother would have said, but Maggie knew better. Without a word she closed her book and followed the stranger out of the building.

 

*   *   *

 

As soon as they were outside, he turned to face her.

“Where’s your car?” he asked.

“I’m a freshman,” she told him. “Freshmen aren’t allowed to have cars on campus.”

He stared at her. She stared back.

He was six-two and lean with a long waist and even longer legs. He had a good face, brown hair and eyes, and little crow’s feet, or laugh lines, at the corners of his eyes. His skin was tan and slightly weathered as though he spent a good deal of time outdoors, and his hands were immaculately clean with long, dexterous fingers. He had a neat moustache, a closely shaven beard, and unruly hair that brushed the back of his collar when he walked. He was casually but neatly clothed in faded jeans, a flannel shirt over a cotton turtleneck, and cowboy boots.

Graham Robertson may have made a name for himself photographing race riots, student unrest, and the Vietnam War, Maggie thought, but this man had done more than just photograph such events: he’d lived them.

How old was he, anyway? Thirty? Thirty-five? Forty?

Too old for you, her mother would have said, but Maggie didn’t listen.

He raised an eyebrow. “Shall I repeat the question?”

“In the Law School parking lot,” she said.

“Let’s go.”

He took her hand and led her beside Fulton Chapel toward the rear of the Fine Arts Center.

“Are you in some kind of trouble?” she asked.

“Let’s just say I could be if I don’t get the hell out of here soon.”

“So what do they want you for? Kidnapping?”

“Very funny.”

As they neared the back of the building, they came upon members of a balalaika orchestra milling about behind the auditorium.

“Damn!” he exclaimed under his breath, and quickly turned his back to the visiting artists as he took Maggie’s elbow and guided her along beside him.

“Do you think there might be KGB agents accompanying those Russian musicians?” she asked as they hurried toward the law building.

“I know there are,” he said.

When they got to the Law School, he let go of her arm.

“Which car is yours?” he asked.

Maggie led him to a Buick Skylark.

“You drive,” he said as he got in on the passenger side and slid down in the seat.

Maggie got into the car and started the engine.

“Where to?” she asked.

“Somewhere they’ll never think to look for me,” he told her, and then, glancing at the book she’d just laid on the seat between them, added, “and make sure we’re not followed.”

 

*   *   *

 

Maggie drove east for a while and then turned off Highway 6 onto a dirt road that led to a small farmhouse.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“My place off campus.”

“When I was a freshman,” he told her, “we weren’t allowed to have a place off campus.”

“Which century was that?”

“The same as this one and you know it.”

Maggie got out of the car and looked at him through the driver’s window.

“Are you going to come in, or do you plan on just sitting in the car all day?”

He got out of the car and followed her up onto the porch. Maggie unlocked the door.

“Welcome to my safe house,” she said, and invited him inside.

They entered a 1940s-style kitchen with gas stove, old-fashioned refrigerator, and wooden table with four mismatched chairs firmly settled into the linoleum.

“Have a seat,” she said.

He took a chair facing the sink and stretched his long legs out under the table.

“Would you like some hot tea?” she asked after checking the fridge and finding it wanting. “I’m afraid I’m fresh out of Cokes.”

He laughed. “What is it about you Southern women?”

“I beg your pardon?” She turned to look him straight in the eyes.

“If I’d tried to pull a stunt like that in Boston, the young lady would have kicked me in the shin, kneed me in the groin, and screamed bloody murder before I’d even had a chance to say, ‘Bring your book.’ So why didn’t you do the same?”

Maggie drew herself up to full height, which at five-foot-eight was none too short.

“I may be a Southerner,” she said, “but I am nonetheless a full-blooded American, and I consider myself honor bound to do whatever I can to preserve the freedom we Americans are so privileged to enjoy, thanks to the blood of our fathers and their fathers before them.

“Now, would you care for some tea?”

“Yes,” he said. “Please.”

Maggie filled the teakettle and put it on to boil, then turned to face him once more.

“Is there anything else you’d like to ask me?” she said.

“Like what?”

“Like what’s my name, what’s my major, where am I from, what does my father do, am I engaged…”

“Are you?”

“No. Are you?”

“No.”

“Married?”

“No.”

“Divorced or widowed?”

“No.”

“There, you see? I’m more clever than you thought,” she said, and turned her attention to the kettle once more.

“Is there anything else I’ve forgotten to ask you?” he inquired.

“Yes,” she said. “You’ve forgotten to ask me what sorority I pledged.”

“Dear God. You haven’t, have you? Pledged one, I mean.”

“No, of course not.”

He closed his eyes in an attitude of prayer. “Thank you.”

“Don’t you at least want to know my name?” she asked.

“I don’t have much use for names.”

“So what did you figure on calling me?”

He smiled. “Your name will do nicely, I’m sure.”

“It’s Maggie,” she told him. And then, suddenly remembering her older brother, added, “Not Maggot; Maggie.”

“Maggie,” he repeated. “Of course.” He stood and took her hand and gave a slight bow. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Miss Maggie.”

“I don’t suppose you have a name,” she ventured when he was once again seated with a cup of tea in front of him.

“On the contrary,” he said. “I have several.”

Maggie set milk, sugar, and lemon on the table.

“No doubt you have several passports as well,” she commented.

“More than one, anyway.”

She sat at the table and put lemon and sugar in her tea while he stirred milk into his.

“You haven’t told me what you do for a living,” she said, “or what you were doing at a photo exhibition you apparently had no interest in seeing.”

“No, I haven’t.”

She watched him and waited, but nothing more was forthcoming.

“Would you care to share one of your names with me?” she asked.

“Not really. It’s probably better for us both if I don’t. Besides,” he added, “who a man is is not important, Maggie. It’s what he is that counts.”

“That’s all very well and good,” she said, “but I have to call you something.”

“You could call me Somey for short.”

She smiled at him. “Okay.”

They sipped their tea and looked at each other across the table.

“So, where are you from, Somey?”

He laughed. “Who are you?”

“I’m Maggie,” she said. “Who are you?”

His laughter faded.

“Ashley,” he said. “My name is Ashley.”

“First or last?” she asked. “I mean, am I supposed to call you Mr. Ashley or just plain old Ashley?”

“Plain old Ashley will do fine,” he said. “Unless, of course, you’d rather call me Somey.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“Because,” he told her, “no one else has ever called me that. So, if I heard someone yelling for Somey, I’d know it was you and I’d come straight away.”

“Oh,” she said, and lowered her eyes to take a sip of tea. “So, where are you from, Somey?”

He smiled. “Denmark, originally.”

“Really? You don’t sound Danish.”

“I’m not. I merely meant that I grew up in Denmark.”

“Oh.”

“And you?”

“Aberdeen.”

“You don’t sound Scottish.”

She laughed. “I meant the one here in Mississippi, of course. As a matter of fact, I’m probably the only girl in my dorm who even knows there is an Aberdeen in Scotland. They’re all too busy teasing their hair and putting on makeup and dreaming of that frat party next weekend even to think about the fact that a place like Scotland exists.”

She shook her head and looked at him. “Have you any idea what it’s like to be stuck in an institution of higher learning among a lot of boys whose idea of a good time is to go squirrel hunting – and I didn’t mean that as a double entendre, but you may take it that way if you wish – and then get drunk enough to puke all over everybody and everything in sight? Not to mention a whole lot of girls whose greatest ambition in life is to actually marry one of those boys?”

Ashley sighed and gave her a commiserate look. “Yes.”

“Honest to God,” she said, “sometimes I wonder what I’m doing here.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Not looking for a husband, that’s for sure.”

“I believe you,” he said. “So just what is it that you are doing here?”

She looked at him in some confusion. “Well, studying journalism, of course. Getting a college education. Earning a degree. Isn’t that what young women are supposed to be doing these days?”

“I don’t know. I thought they were all supposed to be out looking for husbands.”

“Now you’re making fun of me.”

“No, I’m not. I’d just like to know what it is that you think young women should be doing these days.”

Maggie gave him a hard look.

“Nobody cares what I think about anything,” she told him, “least of all what I want to do with my life.”

“I do,” he said.

“My parents don’t.”

Ashley waited.

“I want to be a writer, don’t you see? But my parents say I have to go to an in-state school, so my choices are limited. They really wanted me to go to MSCW because it’s both a women’s college and close to home, but I said if I had to go to college in Mississippi, then I would go to Ole Miss because at least it has a decent journalism department and perhaps I could learn something there. Oh, you have to pick and choose your courses according to who’s teaching them, of course, but you can get a lot out of it, really, if you try. And at least most of the journalism students are not frat rats or sorry sisters. They may be a little strange – not the sort your mom would want you to hang out with, much less marry, I suppose – but they’re not a bad lot, really.”

She was pensive for a moment.

“I plan to go somewhere else my junior and senior years,” she told him, “but my parents insist that I stay in Mississippi for my first two years of college.”

“Must you always do as your parents say?”

“According to them, yes. I won’t be of legal age till I’m twenty-one, you know, and my parents never miss an opportunity to remind me that until that day, I am their responsibility and any trouble I get into, they will have to pay for.”

“How old are you now?” he asked.

Maggie gave him a calculating look.

“What would you say if I told you I’m two weeks away from my eighteenth birthday?”

“I’d say, ‘So how old are you now?’”

“Why? Does it really make any difference to you whether I’m seventeen or eighteen?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Thanks. What’s that supposed to mean? That you don’t give a damn how old I am because you’re going to rape me anyway, or you don’t give a damn how old I am because you’ve no interest in raping me at all?”

He just sat there studying her. Maggie had never known anyone to look at her so intently for so long. She began to worry about what he was seeing: a gangly, flat-chested girl with ordinary brown hair and plain brown eyes underscored by a too wide mouth that spoke too often and said too much?

And then he looked into her eyes with such intensity that she felt her skin melt away under his gaze, leaving only the good bone structure underneath for his viewing. And when the bones began to crack and crumble as well, she strengthened her resolve and stared back at him with equal intensity, holding her intelligence and wit, her love of literature and longing for adventure, her generous spirit and romantic heart all safely wrapped up in her soul – her wondrous, searching and, she now realized with growing horror, totally transparent soul.

“Neither,” he said quietly.

Maggie felt her breath catch at the back of her throat. She lowered her eyes.

“Somey…” she said.

“Yes, Maggie?”

“Why did you kidnap me today?”

“I didn’t kidnap you, Maggie. I rescued you. Don’t you know that?”

She bowed her head and stared into her teacup.

“Who are you hiding from, Somey?”

He reached over and pushed her hair back off her face.

“If you want to be a writer, young lady, you’d better brush up on your grammar,” he said.

She looked up and stared at him. Hard.

“Shall I repeat the question?”

He dropped his hand and sighed.

“Them,” he said.

Her eyes widened.

“You mean ‘Them’ with a capital T?”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

“Wow. No wonder you didn’t want to go near Fulton Chapel today.”

“You won’t tell anyone about me, will you?”

“Then you really are in danger?”

He shook his head. “No. If we’d been followed, we’d know it by now. Anyway, it seems unlikely they’d look for me here.”

“But what’ll they do if they find you?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Go ahead and shoot me, I guess.”

Maggie’s face paled.

“But, Somey, if they know you’re here in Oxford…”

He reached over and covered her hand with his.

“I won’t be in Oxford for long,” he said.

“But then where will you go?”

“Back to Denmark.”

“And then?”

He withdrew his hand.

“That I can’t say.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

“Are you staying here for the night?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Too risky.”

“But they would never look for you here, would they? There’s plenty of room, and I’m already signed out for the weekend. We could…”

He took both her hands in his.

“Maggie,” he said, and waited for her eyes to meet his. “No.”

“Why not?”

He let go of one of her hands and touched her face.

“Don’t let me be the one,” he said. “Please, Maggie, don’t let me be the one.”

“What one?” she asked, pulling her hand away and drawing back in apprehension.

He shook his head and smiled. Maggie stood and took their teacups to the sink to be washed.

“So, tell me,” Ashley said. “What did you think of Robertson’s photographs?”

“I didn’t get a chance to look at them, really. I just barely got there in time to start serving, and then you came along and…”

“Well, the exhibition will be here for another week, won’t it?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve seen Robertson’s photos on occasion. I’d be interested to know what you think of them.”

She turned to face him. “Then you’ll be…”

He shook his head. “I’ll give you an address where you can write to me. Will you do that?”

She nodded.

He took a small notebook and pencil from his pocket and wrote down the address for her.

“It’s just a post office box and a special code number,” he said as he handed it to her, “but you can reach me there until further notice. You don’t need my name, just the address. It may take a while, but it should get to me eventually.”

Maggie stared at the APO San Francisco address.

“Vietnam,” she said.

“I didn’t say that.”

She turned away from him and slammed her fists against the edge of the sink. Ashley came over to stand behind her and put his arms around her.

“It’s only for a few months,” he said.

“But it takes only seconds to die.”

He turned her in his arms, lifted her chin, and kissed her.

“I won’t die,” he told her. “I never die.”

He held her in his arms for a moment, then grasped her long, straight hair and tilted her head back to look into her face.

“Don’t, Maggie,” he said as tears slid down her cheeks. “For them, maybe, but not for me. Never for me.”

Maggie closed her eyes and leaned her head against him as he tenderly stroked her hair. At last her tears were spent and she took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of him and feeling once more that strange little flip in her tummy and even stranger tingle below that she had first sensed when he’d slipped his arms around her just moments ago.

“Maggie…”

She raised her head and looked at him as he took a step backward.

“I want to apologize for dragging you away from your post at the exhibition this afternoon,” he said. “It was more than a bit barbaric and totally selfish of me.”

“Are you sorry you did?” she asked.

“No. Are you?”

She shook her head.

“Then perhaps you won’t mind if I ask one more favor of you.”

“What’s that?”

“I’ve still got a bit of a journey before me, and I was wondering if you’d mind if I took a short rest before I go.”

“No, of course not,” she said, and led him to a large, airy bedroom with brick fireplace, high ceiling, and tall, wide windows. Against one wall stood a double bed in a painted iron bedstead, replete with brass finials and handmade quilt.

Ashley sat on the edge of the bed and removed his boots, then lay back against a double layer of down pillows and let out a sigh of contentment.

“This is heaven,” he said, and closed his eyes.

“Is there anything else you need?” Maggie asked.

He opened his eyes and looked at her.

“Just you,” he said, and held out his hand.

Maggie hesitated, then stepped closer and put her hand in his. Ashley’s smile broadened as he gazed into her eyes.

“If I were a vampire,” he said gently, “I would have done you in the kitchen.”

She smiled and looked down, watching his thumb move in small, repetitive circles over the top of her hand.

“Just lie here beside me for a while,” he said. “I promise not to bite.”

Maggie looked into his eyes, then slipped her hand out of his and removed her blazer. She draped the blazer over a bedpost, took off her shoes, and crawled onto the bed beside him. Ashley slipped his arms around her and kissed her forehead before settling down to sleep.

Maggie lay with her head on his chest, listening to the rhythm of his breathing and the sound of his heartbeat until she, too, was lulled to sleep.

 

*   *   *

 

When next she awoke, Ashley was gone. He had, however, left a lovely bouquet of wildflowers on the bedside table. Next to the flowers lay The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, accompanied by a brief note. It said:

 

Don’t believe everything you read.  – S

© 2016 Ann Henry, all rights reserved.