The Farther Shore - Christie Golden [5]
At 6:30, he left SI with the same briefcase and walked home. She didn’t know what he fixed himself for dinner, but she was willing to bet it was the same [15] thing every night. At precisely ten o’clock, the lights went out.
Very ordinary. Very predictable. Very boring, but also very convenient for Libby’s purposes. Which was why she was so exasperated that it wasn’t working.
She’d prepared her props and her dialogue carefully, then put her plan into action. She had watched him walk to The Stop Spot, and five minutes later walked there herself. He was already sitting at a table, eating his sandwich. She instructed the replicator to produce an egg salad sandwich on rye bread, with an orange and a large coffee, heavy on the cream and sugar, making sure she spoke loudly enough so that Blake would overhear. She watched him out of the corner of her eye. He was intently reading a padd and didn’t appear to have noticed.
She sat at a table a little distance away from him, facing him. Libby tried to catch his eye several times, and utterly failed. She finished her sandwich in silence, reflecting on how much she disliked egg salad, then rose. She took exactly four steps in his direction before she “dropped” a small padd. It hit the cement and she kept walking.
She had almost turned the corner when she heard a voice behind her calling, “Excuse me! You dropped this!”
Libby turned, putting on her sweetest smile, only to see the young waiter chasing after her. Inwardly she sighed; a whole day wasted.
She put on a convincing show, though, as she took the padd from the young man, who smiled shyly at her. “Thank you so much!” she said graciously, then went home.
She tried it again the next day. This time, the waiter [16] didn’t see the dropped padd, but neither did Trevor Blake. She had to go back and pick it up off the ground herself an hour later, Libby waited a day, so it wouldn’t be too obvious. She was beginning to suspect, however, that she could beat Trevor Blake over the head with the padd and he wouldn’t notice.
Today, she choked down yet another despised egg salad sandwich, finished her orange and coffee, and rose to leave. Again, the padd slipped out of her bag and fell to the ground. This time, however, it was close enough to Blake that he heard the sound. She saw his brown head move in the direction of the padd and quickened her pace. There was an automated transporter around the corner. She got to it just in time, for as she dematerialized, she saw him start toward her.
Perfect.
She rematerialized in her cabin and wondered how long the next step would take. The longer, the better; it would give him a chance to read the fake journal she’d compiled. And the more he read of that, the more he’d want to see her.
It was late that afternoon when he finally contacted her. She had carefully applied makeup and tousled her hair just so before she sat down at the computer.
“Hello?” she said, with just the right amount of warmth and caution.
“Um ... Miss Webber?”
“Yes,” she said, looking confused. “May I ask who you are, sir?”
He cleared his throat. “You don’t know me, but I found a padd that I think belongs to you. I think you dropped it at The Stop Spot earlier today.”
[17] “I’m certain you’re mistaken. ... Wait a moment, will you?” She rose and pretended to fumble in her bag. “Oh my God ... you found my journal? Please tell me you didn’t read it!”
He flushed bright pink and lied, “No, of course not. I just wanted to see if there was any contact information.”
Again, perfect. She collapsed into the chair and sighed deeply. “Thank you so much. You’re such a gentleman, Mr. ... ?”
“Uh ... Blake. Trevor Blake.”
She unleashed the full force of her smile upon him, and she could swear he quivered. “Trevor,” she said