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He nodded.
“You know what the doctor said. The pressure changes could redamage your eardrums, your hearing. Maybe do permanent damage. Just when—”
She stopped when she felt a fizzing in her throat and her eyes beginning to burn.
He nodded again. Just when he almost had it all back. Just when he could once again hear her voice. Just when they could have an actual conversation, about those details of life no one else could possibly care about.
And now he was putting it all at risk.
“I am sorry,” he said, softly. He placed his large hands on either side of her face and held them gently there for a moment, before leaning in and giving her a deep, long kiss. And felt her kiss him back.
Whatever happened, they would still have that. Always have that. Into eternity. There was no need for words to understand that.
As he pulled away, she reached out and held his face. Pulling him close, she whispered in his ear. “I love you.”
“And I love you. I’ll be back for dinner.”
After she’d heard the front door close, Reine-Marie got out of bed and, wrapping the comforter around her shoulders, she stood at the window. The dogs and Gracie joined her, and all four watched his headlights illuminate the bench on the hill, before disappearing.
He’d told her the evening before what “that man” had said about Prime Minister Woodford. It was patently ridiculous. Meant to smear.
She hoped. Because if Lauzon was actually telling the truth …
“We’re all in trouble,” she whispered and saw Henri’s satellite ears swing toward her, his face turned up to her. His eyes clearly communicating.
Breakfast.
As soon as Jean-Guy’s flight landed at Reagan National in DC, he grabbed a cab.
Twenty minutes later he walked into a diner about as far from the White House as he could be. Not geographically but socially.
The diner was populated, sparsely, by the disoriented, the disenfranchised. Those without power. Without income, without jobs. Without hope.
Though there was one person, sitting at the back, wearing a Washington Mystics cap. He had on cords and a T-shirt under an old grubby and torn combat jacket, without insignia.
“Coffee, please,” said Beauvoir, pausing at the counter, though he was far from sure the server heard him. Or cared.
General Whitehead nodded but didn’t get up.
“Good morning. Not to be rude, but I expected Armand.”
Jean-Guy sat and was grateful, though admittedly surprised, when a hand put down a mug of coffee, along with creams and sugars.
“Thank you. I’m sorry. Just me again.” He popped open the creamer, then tore a little sugar packet and stirred. “What happened to Off the Record?”
It was the swank bar in the basement of the Hay-Adams hotel, across the street from the White House, where they met last time.
“For one thing, it’s eight thirty in the morning and the bar isn’t open. And it’s too close to—”
Bert Whitehead stopped. It was clear what he meant.
“Besides,” said the General, “I like it here. Sam’s an old friend. We served together in the Gulf War. We’re safe.”
On hearing the last word, Jean-Guy stopped stirring his coffee, carefully placed the spoon on the table, and leaned forward. “Tell me about FEDS.”
Though Isabelle said nothing, she noticed Armand wincing as the plane gained altitude.
They’d asked the Sûreté pilot to fly low, to lessen the pressure.
