The Seventh Sinner - Elizabeth Peters [34]
Jacqueline was already there, at one of the sidewalk tables under the blue-and-white awning. Her blue linen suit matched the blue of the awning and turned her eyes aquamarine. She was knitting busily. The wool was a lovely shade of blue, a bit darker than her suit, but it had a slightly battered look and Jacqueline scowled at it over the tops of her glasses, which rested precariously on the end of her nose. She looked up as Jean approached, and the scowl deepened into a look of concern.
“What happened to you?”
“Have you been waiting long?” Jean dropped into a chair.
“No, I was late myself. But what—”
“If I’d known you were going to be late I wouldn’t have hurled myself under a taxi. Some less drastic excuse would have done just as well.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Well, I didn’t actually jump,” Jean said. She stretched out her legs and inspected her scraped knees. “I was pushed.”
Jacqueline bundled up her knitting with a carelessness that explained its dilapidated condition, and put it into the purse. She took out the box of Band-Aids and a small bottle.
“Oh, no.” Apprehensively, Jean recognized the red liquid in the bottle. “Jacqueline, you are too much. Don’t tell me you always carry…You can’t do that here!”
Ignoring Jean’s wails and the fascinated stare of the waiter, Jacqueline administered first aid as calmly as if she had been alone with her patient. The damage was extensive. When Jacqueline had slapped a series of bandages across each knee she put her materials back in the purse, glared at the waiter, who tried to look as if he were somewhere else, and inquired, “Are you all right?”
“Oh, sure. It isn’t the first time some idiot has pushed me off the curb. Only this time…Well, I was lucky the taxi driver had good reflexes.”
She spoke lightly, but the memory would not leave her in a hurry—the sick knowledge of her own helplessness as she looked up and saw the shining chrome of the grill bearing down on her.
“Anyway,” she added, “I’d have gotten here if I had to crawl. It isn’t every day I’m invited to lunch on the glamorous Via Veneto. We don’t hang out here, it’s too expensive.”
“It’s a tourist trap and an affront to the laboring masses,” Jacqueline agreed placidly. She took the knitting out of her purse, studied it dubiously, shrugged, and began to knit.
“What is it?” Jean asked. “I don’t want to sound nosy, but I can’t see you as a doting grandmother, somehow.”
“It’s supposed to be a sweater,” Jacqueline said doubtfully. “For an unfortunate baby of my acquaintance. Not a grandchild, no. I don’t think I’m about to acquire one in the near future. The real function of this mess is to keep my hands occupied so I won’t smoke.”
“I think you just dropped a stitch.”
“The baby won’t know the difference,” Jacqueline said callously. “And if you keep up those smart remarks, I’ll let you do it. How is your work progressing?”
“I’m through, more or less. The reports aren’t due till the end of the week, but I’m wrung dry.”
With an air of guilt, Jacqueline shoved the knitting back into the purse and took out a pack of cigarettes.
“I gather the others aren’t as far along as you are. I haven’t seen them for the last few days.”
“They’ve been working. But most of them were at Gino’s, yesterday.”
“The same as always?”
“The same…I promised myself I wasn’t going to talk about it.”
“It’s supposed to be cathartic to talk it out. Whatever it is.”
“Oh, you know what it is. It will be a long, long time,” said Jean softly, “before I can close my eyes at night without seeing him the way he looked, just before—”
“Forget it. I mean it literally, even if it does sound cruel. The time will come when you won’t think of it. And much sooner than you believe.”
“But that bothers me too. Death is such a final thing, it ought to…well, affect the world more than it does. It doesn’t seem right that a man can die and leave so small a mark behind. Even someone like Albert. He was a human being,