Murder in Foggy Bottom - Margaret Truman [64]
“I think so.”
“Like Skip. They’re capable of loving, and they do love, but we’re more of a biological necessity for them. They love themselves more—especially when in danger. Max told me his former wife, Doris, is involved with an accountant. Smart lady.”
Annabel considered Jessica’s comments to represent an overly harsh evaluation, and her unstated characterization of accountants to be too general, but didn’t express her feelings. Instead, she said, “Well, time to leave. Wish you could join us, and sorry you can’t make our party next Saturday.”
“Me, too, Annabel.”
As they walked from the rest room, Jessica said brightly, “Maybe that’s why I love birds so much, Annabel. They’re predictable, and always entertaining. They stick close to their nests.”
Annabel rejoined Mac. They said good night to Jessica, rode the elevator down to the lobby, took note of the extra armed security guards at the doors, and headed for a Pan-Asian dinner at Germaine’s. It was after they’d arrived home at their Watergate apartment that Annabel recounted her ladies’-room conversation with Jessica.
“She ought to look for a man elsewhere,” Mac said while rubbing Rufus behind the ears. “Hang around IRS hearing rooms, or attend accountants’ conventions.”
Annabel laughed.
“What’s funny?”
“Suggesting Jessica look for an accountant. Max Pauling told her his ex-wife is dating one.”
“Smart lady.”
“That’s what Jessica said. Know what, Mac?”
“What?”
“I’m sorry for Jessica, and happy for me.”
Chapter 21
That Same Evening
Washington, DC
Roseann Blackburn and Craig Thomas had driven from the Four Seasons to the historic Tabard Inn, on N Street NW, in Thomas’s car. He offered to drive her home after dinner but Roseann declined, and Thomas knew why. She didn’t want to run the risk of her boyfriend, Joe Potamos, seeing her arrive in another man’s car.
The taxi ride gave her a chance to ponder the evening, and, more important, what to tell Joe about how she’d spent it.
They’d started with a drink in the inn’s lounge, then moved to the brick-walled outdoor garden with colorful umbrellas over the tables, and sculpture that was, surprisingly, artistic rather than merely decorative.
“So, Roseann Blackburn, tell me all about yourself,” he said after he perused the wine list and ordered an Oregon pinot noir he could vouch for.
“Everything?” she said lightly.
“No, be selective. What’s it like playing the piano in places like the Four Seasons? Does it ever get—well, boring?”
“Sometimes, but whenever it does, I focus on the music and try to play a tune differently than I’ve ever played it before, find some new chord to use, a change of tempo. Music never bores me.”
“I took piano lessons as a kid but they didn’t take. Where are you from? When did you start lessons? Did you start with classical music? Were your mom and dad musicians?”
And so it went for the next two hours, scores of questions gently asked over crab salads, lobster and rosemary, a hefty loaf of raisin pumpernickel bread, and blackberry brulée tarts. At one point, Roseann wondered whether she should be annoyed at so many questions but she wasn’t. This was obviously a man who was sincerely interested in other people, a man filled with natural curiosity. It felt good talking about herself. She was basically a shy, private person, secure only when a piano separated her from the rest of the world. But everything about Thomas exuded kindness, especially his eyes.
They lingered over coffee. Roseann said, “I’ve been babbling away about myself, something I never do.” Then, unexplainably, she began to cry, softly.
“I’m sorry if I’ve upset you with all my questions,” Thomas said.
“No, no, you didn’t upset me,” she said, dabbing at the corners of her eyes with her napkin. “It’s just that…”
“It’s just that what?