Beginning, Section II
Jump to new as of August 6, 2001
Harmony Smith could not be the courier. She was not spy or courier material...she was entirely too naïve to be a spy, and certainly too smart to be a courier.
But typed on the napkin, "Smith".
She opened up the napkin to see that there were further messages typed and tucked into the napkin, and so she slipped it into the low neckline of her dress, in her bra very smoothly.
"Emma!" her sister approached her. "There you are! I've seen your flitting about all evening, and have not yet had a chance to catch you. What say you about lunch tomorrow, just the two of us? I'll cook?"
Her sister cooked? Isabella, who in high school never spent any time remotely close the kitchen, cooked? Emma's eyes widened. "Well, all right." What was a meal anyhow?
"There are you are, love. Last dance," John offered his hand to Isabella lovingly. The way he was staring at her was entirely too intimate and unnerving for two people who had been married for some time now.
Emma allowed an amused smile to come across her features as she saw her sister's eyes light up, as if it were the first time he'd ever asked her to dance. How long had it been for them? When had they gotten married? They got married right out of college, making it around six or seven years now.
She had to give her sister credit; it appeared that Isabella had settled herself into quite a life, and actually enjoyed it.
She felt an arm around her waist (and she knew whose it was, with that supernatural intergalactic spy instinct she had), and instinctively grabbed the arm, twisted it behind the aggressor's back, stepping forward, and grabbing the knife in her bra and holding it to his stomach, hidden from the view of all who were at the party, all the while making the scene look disturbingly intimate, perhaps because it was overtly sensuous. (Intergalactic spies cannot help that, though. It seems all their actions are overtly elegant and sensual.)
Meeting George's eyes, eyes that were not clouded in any fear whatsoever, she decided to test him, tucking the dull edge of the knife close to his form. "What did you think you were doing?" she said menacingly, making the fact that she was holding a knife to him perfectly natural. (Intergalactic spies can make anything look typical.)
George yawned, expression bored, not at all intimidated or confused by the knife. "I'm sure this is all very amusing to you. I came here to claim you for the last dance."
Seeing that they were gathering some viewers, she leaned forward, even closer to his body, blocking the knife even more from view. She breathed softly into his ear, gently letting the tones tease his ear in a manner that intergalactic spies used to get a point across rather sexily. (Intergalactic spies always get their points across, sexily or not, and George should be glad that she as allowed the encounter to stay this playful way...Agent Cottontail has gotten points across in other ways.) "A simple tap on the shoulder would suffice," she said between gritted teeth.
George, however, did not withdraw, nor did he comment. He oh so slowly kissed the corner of where her neck and shoulder met, and sent shivers through her.
She pressed the knife closer, and he finally backed away. She just as quickly hid the knife from public view, and let George assess her.
George's eyes flashed in somewhat surprise, but he quickly smothered that flame as he let his eyes fall back to the solid lush green that possessed no revelations; simply direct objectivity. He did not question the fluid sequence of movements that had just transpired. Instead, he cleared his throat. "Dance with me." He held out the hand.
She shrugged. "If I must." She did not allow him to take her hand, but simply followed him towards the dance floor. (Intergalactic spies, as we have just witnessed, do not take to being touched very well, especially if by surprise.) As she let his arms slide about her, locking her in a mood of wariness, she cringed as the camera flashed in her eyes.
She glared at the photographer, and then back to the man who held her. "I have a headache."
"So what. We're finishing this dance," he said, voice flat and without any compassion for her exhaustion. She expected that.
But she did not expect, and was somewhat surprised that his hand wandered to the back of her neck, the way it used to, oh so long ago. She did not expect him to massage the tension from that clump where stress always seemed to mount, the way he always used to. And she did not expect to find herself stepping forward, letting her forehead rest against his shoulder, and her hands to slowly, every so cautiously, embrace him, with the faintest feeling of delight and content sweeping into her mind, which ceased aching considerably.
Harmony Beatrice Smith was born on September 26, 19--. She was the eldest of three children: her younger brothers Greg and Kevin were both away from home; Greg had run off to Europe to study for a term, and had decided to stay there. Kevin was currently a sophomore at Stanford.
Her father, Malcolm Smith, owned his own business; Mal's Pool-cleaning service was a respectable business, and the profits, though not excessively glamorous, were still substantial.
Her mother, Bonnie Smith, was the librarian at the Highbury Public Library.
Harmony herself had gone to the University of Michigan on full scholarship, and had graduated a full year earlier than she had been expected to, with highest honors. She immediately enrolled in the MD/PhD program there, and proceeded to gain both degrees in the allotted time, with finesse.
Harmony was engaged to her high school sweetheart. One, Elton Daniels, who was now taking the bar exam, joining his father's law firm. Both resided at their respective parents' homes.
The spy report that Emma had compiled the night before, after the gala and before bed, had also noted that the two sweethearts had never been "intimate", and while Harmony remained true to her promise to Elton, Elton did not honor the vows he was to take with is wife.
Even sadder fact: Harmony did not seem to care.
Emma was almost certain in youth, but the report confirmed: Harmony Smith was a clueless, spineless loser.
But alas, intergalactic spies did not get to select their targets.
Looking at the details that had come tucked into the napkin, she scowled darkly.
Harmony Smith had no idea she was the courier. She possessed in her office somewhere a paperweight she'd gotten as a gift from some patient who had been a little too grateful for a simple cure for the ailing back he had.
It was rather ugly.
But it was also worth millions, because sealed inside that fat Cheshire cat, there were diamonds. Lots of them.
Harmony did not know this. Harmony had smiled and earnestly thanked her patient for the gaudy gift, and placed it on her desk as a sign of her appreciation for her gift.
And somehow, that paperweight was to change hands. Emma suspected that the buyer would simple exchange the paperweight model for another, taking the one with the diamonds away from the office.
Who was the buyer? One Frank Churchill.
Frank Churchill, her inquiries to the travel agencies last night had indicated, was to come home in two days. It was then safe to assume that going into the office some time before the two days was over would get the goal accomplished.
What a lame assignment. But alas, they did not make spy jobs as thrilling as they used to; she was getting old in her field; it was only natural that the joys of novelty would wear off.
Where was the challenge? She did not receive years and years of training and spend years perfecting, and finessing her own style to take nitwit jobs such as this; the boss was crazy if he wanted to waste her talents here.
Regardless, best be safe: further investigation was needed on Churchill. But, Emma pulled on her socks, she had no time for that right now; she had to meet with her sister for lunch.
She opened her bedroom door to find the newspaper at her feet with a note from her mother, and scoffed as she turned to the section specified by the note: the front page of Local News.
Emma hated pictures. As an intergalactic spy, she had to keep her profile in her assignments rather low; if she had attracted too much attention to herself, her identity could have been passed on from case to case, linking all her feats, and giving Interpol a larger edge on her.
And there it was: a rather hideous picture of a very much headache-inflicted her and a very undeniably handsome George Knightley that managed to sap the attention of the casual observer, who did not notice the headache-affliction, only the pure glossy glamour of the couple.
At the exact moment Emma Woodhouse departed from Hartfield to go to her sister's home, a woman of around thirty years was picking up the Detroit Free Press from the driveway of a residence in Royal Oak.
Of course, the paper was not hers, but who cared?
She didn't really expect to find anything interesting, so she was shocked when ruffling through for the comics she came across the same picture that had set Emma Woodhouse from Hartfield very much irritated.
This woman's reaction, however, was different.
"Emma! Great you're just in time!"
Isabella, a whirlwind of jeans and T-shirt, opened the door, and then rushed back into the kitchen. Emma followed her, after closing the door and securing it.
The John Knightleys' residence was elegant and simple. Fashionable, even, despite the elegance. It wonderfully lacked the ostentatious display of wealth that saturated the very being of Donwell or Hartfield.
Emma had to grudgingly admit she liked it; who was Isabella's decorator? "Your home is very beautifully decorated," she observed, casually.
"Thank you, John and I went from room to room and thought over and decided what we wanted...we wanted a home, you know?"
Well, there was another surprise. Isabella and John decorated the house themselves. She covered her surprise and quickly regained control of the conversation. "What's for lunch?"
"John and I have been testing out some recipes from some of his colleagues at work; we're on to the Oto's set of recipes, so there is Miso soup and Teriyaki chicken."
Well, Americanized Japanese food was still more creative than just a Caesar salad, which was what her mother had the cook put together for Emma the day before. (Intergalactic spies watch their diets, of course, but one can only eat so much salad before realizing that it is just water.)
But it wasn't Americanized Japanese food; it was actually very well done; Emma had to hand it to her sister. The recipe was authentic Japanese, as were the ingredients. "This tastes very good," she said, somewhat surprised.
Isabella laughed. "You sound entirely too shocked. Tell me, does it taste like real Japanese, because if I'm correct, I think you spent some time in Kyoto?"
"Ah yes, a month or two..." Emma smiled in remembrance. That was a nice job; espionage with a touch of jade. Some blackmail, of course, but what was a job without blackmail, really?
"Tell me about your travels."
She had been prepared for this. Granted, she didn't really think anyone at home would really be interested in the outside world, let alone be aware there was life outside of the tri-county area. "They were interesting, and of course, very...enlightening..."
"Was it very exciting?" Isabella's eyes glimmered.
"Of course, very exciting," Emma let memory take her to a momentary enraptured silence.
"John and I are very anxious to take some time off from Highbury. John is finishing off a large run of cases. We would like to leave the children with Mom and Dad, and see Europe together, for just a while...I really want to see Italy..."
The land of secret mine maps and the hundred kilos of heroine trafficking...ah yes, Emma loved Italy. There were scenic delights there too, as well as beauty. Lots of beauty. "Italy is a very wonderful place to be," she observed, succinctly.
"I'm sure you have a lot more to say than that." Isabella pressed her sister.
"I love Italy; I've been there quite a few times over the last few years."
"You never seem to dip into your accounts here, though. Emma, however do you get by? What do you do for a living?"
"Buy and sell information."
"So you're in communications?"
"You can say that."
"And it's very lucrative?"
"You can say that."
"You're not being very helpful, Emma."
"What is there to say? It pays the bills," she shrugged.
"So you don't enjoy it?"
"Oh no, I enjoy my job. If I didn't, I wouldn't stick around," Emma said simply. (Intergalactic spies often love their occupation.)
Isabella sighed. "I am so very happy you found something that contented you. I didn't always think you'd find something that pleased you, or was interesting enough to keep you..."
Ah, trite happy-for-you comments. It wasn't that she thought her sister trite; far from it. Isabella was still surprising her quite a bit. But this was obviously the part of the conversation in which she'd observe Emma's current happiness, and therefore ask if there were a man in the picture... "...So...is there anyone else, Emma?"
Emma rolled her eyes, and Isabella laughed. "You know we are all curiosity about you. You ran off, and never even wrote or called. It was quite a shock when you called us a month ago and said you were coming home. Mother thought you'd gotten pregnant or something..."
"I already told you that I was not married, is it not enough?"
"Well, is there anyone, Emma? I'm not spying for Ida and Mother, you know. I'm just curious. You seem content enough, of course, but I was just wondering if part of it was a guy...and if there is a guy, what the heck were you doing with George last night?"
"You are just so full of questions today, aren't you?" Emma asked, guard up. She did not like answering questions about herself. She'd always liked low-profile roles.
But trying to be low-profile, especially if you were rich, and especially if you had run off ten years ago on the eve of your wedding, was near impossible, and Emma was wont to scowl in the difficulty of trying to keep her life just what it was: her own business.
Isabella put down her cup of green tea (authentic as well) and looked frankly across the table at her sister. "Emma, if you want to be low-profile in this society, you have to be as flamboyant as possible."
Emma quirked her eyebrow. Yes, she knew of the strategy. But was not inclined to orchestrate such a lame drama for an audience so stupid. But to know that Isabella seemed to be able to read those thoughts..."Just what type of novels do you write?"
"I don't write novels; not yet, anyhow. I write children's picture books. I illustrate them as well."
"I'm impressed," Emma said.
"Don't be. I'm not..." Isabella teased. "I love it. I had a column at one time, with the Free Press, but this is so much more fun; I get to doodle and color."
Emma laughed. Her sister was really quite a delightful person. It was quite startling.
"But you didn't answer my question, Emma. Men?"
"Men are men. They are amusing and interesting, and provide ample entertainment."
"And?"
"And that's the end of the story. Every writer can see that."
Isabella's eyes widened. "Oh my! You loved George!"
Emma frowned. "And how did we arrive at this conclusion?"
Isabella let her lips pout in thought. "Well, I only assume that you have not been seriously involved with anyone since George. And I assume you chalk it up to your career; transience in lodging does not allow for permanent relationships. But if there were a guy, I am sure you'd be willing to sacrifice..."
"I would not sacrifice anything for a man," Emma's eyes flashed dangerously. "They're hardly worth it, and I can't see why devotion to a career would be considered undying love for George Knightley."
"I saw you two last night. You were almost all over each other!"
"Daniels was all over me, but that didn't mean he had undying love for me."
Isabella sighed in exasperation. "You love George. He loves you."
"Could have fooled me, and him," Emma said, belligerently, yet somewhat hesitant to let the subject drop; curiosity was an evil, evil force.
Isabella picked up the hint (while the older generation of Woodhouses seemed to lack skill in most everything, they were good at observation, and therefore managed to pass that on to the next generation) and therefore decided to elaborate. "You know, George never dated?"
"I am sure you're exaggerating."
"No, he used that career BS too...but really! We've done our best ferreting!"
"You sound like Ida..." Emma rolled her eyes.
"Well, it was all based on Ida's observations. She lamented, week after week, how you ought to have returned..."
"I'm sure."
"George stopped visiting home about seven years ago. He'd visited before, hoping you'd come to your senses, or at least run out of money and resurface. But well, after that summer, he just didn't wait anymore. Got busy doing lots of stuff, started checking out art from more places as well...traveled...I always thought that he was hoping he'd run into you somewhere..."
"You are also compulsively sappy-romantic."
"You know, he wasn't even going to come home until Ida called him up in a state after your news; and even then we weren't sure he'd come back. But he claims he's got business here, so technically he has a reason to be around."
"And of course his real reason is to come and pursue me?" Emma asked, sarcastically. Now she was ready to let the subject drop.
Isabella paused in her action of pouring herself a second cup of tea, looked at her sister, and placed the teapot down, having not poured a drop. "I don't know, Emma. He seems charming enough, but it's different. I can't see how, maybe you're in love with him this time..."
Emma kept her eyes solid, but her stomach shifted uncomfortably. Denial would only pique more interest. Sarcasm was just acrid enough to frustrate. "That obvious, huh?"
Isabella glared at her sister. "I said maybe, after all, and I won't press you because you're just avoiding the topic. But you have to admit there's something different about everything this time..."
Emma conjectured sarcastically, leaning forward. "Because this time I'm not obligated to be in love with him?"
Isabella's eyes went from determination to hurt. "Obligated?" she said the word, hesitantly.
Emma sent a level gaze at her sister. "Obligated."
"Wherever did you get the idea that you had to marry George out of deference to debts?"
Of course, Isabella was a die hard romantic. She could not understand that anyone would want to marry without falling in love first. But Isabella had not graduated from Wellesley with honors for nothing. Realization dawned: Emma had no friends in high school, except George. "Oh my, Emma...you wanted to marry him because you didn't want to be alone?"
Isabella paled, and Emma laughed. "Alone isn't a bad thing. And I wasn't totally alone."
"No, you weren't alone; you had George, and that's why you agreed to marry him."
"I've taken to being alone. I just told you I was fine back then," Emma said, solidly, deliberately.
"Everyone hates being alone in high school, Emma."
She hated being scrutinized for understanding; she did not want to be understood. "I am going."
"Sure, after all, you've told me entirely too much of yourself..." Isabella rolled her eyes.
"You didn't care about me then, so I don't think you need to start now," Emma very effectively closed the subject with her quick exit.
Harmony Smith had not called her. She'd have to take matters into her own hands. While Agent Cottontail made a point to never be the one to call and schedule appointments, playing to usual roles and sitting back would just land her in a more difficult situation with the arrival of Frank Churchill in two days.
"Dr. Harmony Smith's office, this is Gretchen speaking, how may I help you?"
"Is Dr. Smith currently busy with a patient?"
"No, Miss, she is on her lunch break."
Late lunch. Emma turned on her left turn signal, and executed the move fluidly, and spoke into the phone system she had wired into her Porsche. (Hands free, of course.) "Then could you see if she would be willing to speak to me? This is Emma Woodhouse."
"All right," Gretchen said politely.
Emma paused at a red light, and waited in silence (Intergalactic spies don't often work to music, as music would alert others to their presence, and that is a big no-no.)
"Hello, Emma?"
"Harmony, what say you about dinner?"
"Tonight?"
"Yes, tonight."
"Um, sure, I think."
Emma smirked. She could imagine Harmony Smith right now, frazzled, and probably very tired. "You've been here more than I have, you choose where we meet."
"There's some good Chinese on Rochester, it's new. It's called Checkmate Sticks. You think you can manage getting there on your own, or maybe I'll pick you up?"
Agent Cottontail drove to all her functions, unless it was imperative that she be driven. "I can find it on my own."
"Great. Meet you there at 7:30ish."
The phone clicked before Emma could confirm, and Emma stared at the dialing system, almost certain there had been a mistake. She wasn't done speaking yet!
Alas, both of them had other things to do, she concluded, as she turned into her driveway, and frowned.
What was George Knightley doing just sitting on the back hood of his car, with a dozen daffodils at his side?
She parked her car up close, missing George's legs by a couple of centimeters. If he felt any nervousness, he did not show it.
She got out of the car, and looked at him through her Hepburnish sunglasses. "Yes?"
He continued to stand there without a word. It was quite vexing and incredibly stupid of him to behave the way he did; the sexy mysteriousness that would still be holding others in awe of him was now considered quite poorly used by the seasoned intergalactic spy. (Intergalactic spies can often see through things like that, and our Intergalactic spy (whose skills have been unreasonably questioned by some doubtful readers) is undeniably the best of her kind.)
So, as his actions were of no interest of her, she bypassed him, and went to the front door, unlocking it. He followed, as she expected, watching her silently as she tossed aside the keys on the front table, and took off her sunglasses. She stood for a second facing the entryway to the kitchen, and then turned around to face him. "What do you want, George?"
"What I didn't get before," he simply replied.
Emma rolled her eyes. "I thought I made it pretty clear that I was not here to give that to you. So why don't you save us both some time and scat? Who knows, I may have to go wash my hair right now."
Silence.
She knew it as soon as the words were uttered. And so she held her posture firm, and coolly met his gaze, issuing the challenge she knew he'd take, asserting her command of the situation, making it clear that this was coming about from her decision.
She stood apart from him by two paces, one, and then none.
Gathered up in a frustrated embrace, she let him kiss her, as many others had done before. She allowed herself to respond with her usual amount of artificial ardor, and then felt it snap.
Slowly, almost awkwardly, her hands crept up his arms, and her fingers entwined in his hair, drawing his head closer to hers. Closer. Closer. Her heart pounded the message to her brain, and she could not argue, as it felt oh so good.
There was so much sharp blistering heat, and fire, but all she felt was a smooth, fluid saturating warmth, that caressed and nestled until she felt that it weighed so heavily she needed his support to hold her to him.
And his arms, when they came around to support her, made her actually smile in this kiss.
He broke it off, not revealing a smile of his own, but catching hers.
She had three choices now, she realized, looking into his inscrutable eyes. She could have turned away now, and ignored the whole incident; she could have acknowledged the instance with a slap on his face, with brutal denial of the feelings that were now tumbling into her, like a herd of Olympic gymnasts; and, finally, she could acknowledge the attraction, the...unquestionable magnetism and exhilaration, and kiss him again.
The first would have been prudent, but rather unlike her previous rather forward and frank actions and words. The second would have been just pathetic, as Agent Cottontail never backed away from the obvious and unchangeable.
And so that left the last.
She loved the efficacy of process of elimination.
dr. no
A doctor with some criminal associations
"Excuse me, Miss-oh! I did not mean to intrude!" Covington stepped back out of the foyer.
Emma smoothly moved out of George's embrace, albeit reluctantly (though she'd never show that; intergalactic spies never show reluctance to do anything). "Yes?"
"Your mother would like to speak with you."
Emma sighed, and turned to George. He was already on his way out.
He had the romance of a rock.
Good riddance.
Emma met Harmony Smith at 7:05 at Checkmate Sticks in a casual outfit that screamed "You can confide in me." She patiently allowed herself to be drawn into the other woman's life, inserting a sympathetic look where she deemed appropriate, and some advice (she had to wrack her brain for this one; Intergalactic spies often resolved their personal problems through murder.)
It wasn't that Harmony was unappealing as a person, though. No, she had a very honest and simple way about her. (Intergalactic spies always think of those traits in italics.) There were some qualities about her that could certainly improved upon, though, among these being her spine, or should it mentioned, lack thereof.
Harmony had settled herself into a bitter existence, with a jaded outlook and she was quite determined to silently hate everyone for landing her in this mess. She could not blame Eeks for leaving. Well, yes she could; for not taking her away with her when she ran away ten years ago. Harmony liked the success she enjoyed as a doctor, but found the work far from satisfying. "I want to be somewhere where I'd be useful, where I would see effects of my treatments; where I would be treating real people for things that meant life or death...not these stupid hypochondriacs," Harmony muttered.
My, wasn't someone bitter? Emma sat back in her chair, took another sip of her Jasmine tea, and examined her perfectly manicured fingernails.
After they finished, they returned to Harmony's new house, a newly built, expensive-looking, soulless place, sparsely decorated, and simply furnished. Nothing on the walls. Looking at it, Emma assessed, one would conclude that Harmony had no true livelihood, and a very simple personality (and he/she would not be far from the truth).
"A house?" Emma asked.
Harmony replied, "I bought a new house before anything. I always wanted one."
Emma remained silent and followed Harmony through a hallway to the kitchen. It somehow made sense. It also explained why Harmony drove the same '87 Oldsmobile wagon that she'd driven in high school.
Harmony placed her keys on the island counter. "Chianti?" she offered, checking her shelf to see if Elton had left anything from his last "personal celebration".
Emma placed her hands on the counter, on top of the keys. The putty she had in the palm of her hand took an imprint of the key that Emma determined to be the office key by process of elimination and observation of Harmony's previous uses of each key. "I'd love some."
However, before Harmony could even reach into the cupboards for the tumblers, the doorbell rang. Harmony frowned. "I'm not expecting anyone." She went to the door.
Emma remained in the kitchen. With her excellent hearing (Intergalactic spies have excellent hearing) she could drunken slurs of low, low tones. Sensing danger, (you never know with drunk men) she went towards the foyer.
She paused at the dark hallway, however, when she saw that Harmony was perfectly fine, and that Elton Daniels, who was now finishing his (rather lame) rendition of the Highbury High fight song, was their visitor.
Harmony turned to Emma and smiled, slightly embarrassed. Emma smiled back politely (Intergalactic spies are all politeness).
Elton caught the smile from Emma, who now emerged from the shadows. "Eeks. Good to see you again," he said, stumbling towards her, and collapsing at her feet.
"Likewise," Emma replied pointedly.
Harmony, not ruffled, and hence, Emma concluded, not unused to this behavior, sighed.
"He had a bit too much to drink."
Harmony looked up to the person who had spoken. The eye contact, Emma noted, was visible fusion. Both expressions were unreadable.
Emma observed the newest guest of the Smith abode. He was tall and golden, fair-haired, hazel-eyed. He was cool, elegant, and clean-cut. A huge improvement from the dark, slick and slimy man that lay sprawled out on the floor, forgotten.
Harmony was speechless, and nervous, for the first time in her adult life! She felt her palms grow damp, and could hear her breath quicken. Tension between them formed a small biting headache, the feeling was so intense!
"Harmony," he said, casually, perhaps a little too snidely. The casual way the name rolled off his luscious tongue made her stomach churn. Her brain was going a thousand thoughts at once, and no true cohesive sentence could form. Irritation at his condescending tone shook her even as the intensity of her feeling burrowed deep inside her.
"W-What have you done to my fiancé?" she finally managed to snap at him.
"Nothing, save for let him enjoy himself a while. Must be the home life," he said, matter-of-factly.
She knew an insult when she heard one. "You know nothing about his home life."
The stranger turned to Emma, and gave her a slow, lazy smile. "Eeks. Lovelier than usual."
"Be still my heart, it's Sullivan Martin." Emma quipped back sarcastically.
Sully Martin. She saw the resemblance between boy and man now. She began again softly, "Your mother was saying you were back in town."
Victoria Martin was one of Harmony's most troublesome patients. She was every day inventing some new ailment in her head. She was a perfectly healthy woman; the only ailment that Harmony could ever find was her incapacity to speak of anything other than 1: herself 2: her son.
Harmony had heard Sullivan Norbert Martin's life story more times than she'd ever like to admit. At first, polite curiosity allowed her to listen courteously. Now, well, the name carried dread. She had grown to resent Sullivan Norbert Martin, and his financially comfortable upbringing, and his parents' connections, and his so-called determination, and his successes.
"For old times sake," he replied, bored. "I had not wanted to, but I always help out a friend in need..." he looked pointedly from the now snoring Elton to the now simmering Harmony.
They had not gotten along in high school. It was hard to remain friendly when grades, rumors, money, situation and intense dislike existed between them. Sully always said, even in her presence, that Elton could have done much better than Harmony Smith.
Apparently, some things never changed. Perhaps the dislike had intensified a little more. Emma wondered if it was tinged with desire.
Before Harmony could respond, her beeper went off. She went to the closet and got it out of her coat pocket. She grimaced as she went to the phone and dialed her voice mail. The other members of the party remained silent, observing her quietly, not even considering speaking to each other.
As Harmony listened to her message, she smiled complacently. She hung up, and dialed another number. "Hello? Is Mrs. Martin there?"
Emma watched Sully carefully to see that he was not surprised, but rather irritated.
"Oh hi, Harmony, I hope I'm not bothering you."
"Oh, don't worry, I always have time to help a friend in need," she said, pointedly looking at Sully. "Is anything the matter?"
"Oh no, I've never felt better. But Sully is in town."
"I know," Harmony replied.
"He's out with friends now, but I would like him to take both of us to lunch tomorrow," Victoria continued without hearing Harmony.
"Lunch, tomorrow?"
"You ought to meet him; I've told you so much about him."
"I have met him, Mrs. Martin. He's here."
"Oh! Well, then. Don't let me interrupt. Just remember, tomorrow at noon."
Harmony sighed and hung up.
Emma frowned. While she was intrigued by the interaction of the two, she had a job to do (alas, the trials of being an Intergalactic spy) and so now interrupted. "Harmony, I hope you weren't scheduling anything for lunch tomorrow. You know we were going to meet for lunch," she said, simply.
Harmony didn't have to think longer than a second. Sully's stare was getting on her nerves, and she did not like him any more than she had in high school. "If you would be so kind to inform your mother of the inconvenience, Mr. Martin, I would appreciate it if you told her that I cannot make it to lunch with you and your mother."
Elton at this point rolled over, opened his eyes to stare up at Emma. "Hello."
A little after midnight, Emma Woodhouse entered her room, tossed aside her things, and dressed down.
She'd have to have the key to the office made tomorrow some time.
Overall, the evening had been a success. She'd gained the courier's trust and an invitation to check out the goods tomorrow.
Her only regret was that she was strung into dinner tomorrow as well...with Daniels and Harmony. Her brow furrowed as she hung up her sweater in the closet with that thought. She'd have to come up with an excuse.
Erf. Daniels.
As for Sullivan Martin...she knew Harmony would be infinitely better off with Martin, but Smith's love life would have to come after her job. Besides, Agent Cottontail didn't do Cupid. Smith was a smart girl, she'd figure it out.
Maybe not.
Emma frowned with that thought. Would Smith actually marry Daniels?
Cottontail didn't care about other people's problems unless she was paid to do so, she concluded. (Besides, if it were solved her way, (the intergalactic spy way) Daniels would be dead, and there would be an absolutely horrid legal mess that she'd have to carefully extract herself from.)
In proper heiress manner, she decided to pretend to be asleep until noon the next day. In that time, she managed to get floor plans of Dr. Smith's office, and a history file of Franklin Churchill.
Franklin Churchill was Danger. Danger Gordon, that is, on "The Proud and the Senseless". He had dropped out of the University of Michigan after his second year and gone to Hollywood.
He had tastes for Chinese opera, buxom redheads, sporks, French food and stolen jewelry. The first was probably touted but not true. The second probably was true, but he probably also made many exceptions. The third was stupid enough to be true. The fourth couldn't be true. (French food. Ick.) The last? Well that was what his PR agent didn't know, but every jewel thief did, and it was most definitely true.
After disgusting herself with a picture of the bloke, (artificial! artificial!) she decided that she ought to get dressed for "work". Today it would be casual "you're my best friend, so I feel comfortable looking like this around you" ensemble (Intergalactic spies have something for every occasion).
As she went down the stairs, however, Covington (she always had a way with bringing bad news) let George Knightley through the door.
Yesterday's events were ignored by both, but conversation was now a careful tango of words and ideas, both careful not to mess up the rhythm, but primed to catch the other in a misstep.
They hadn't said a word.
"I assume you're here to ask me to lunch," she said, at length.
"You always knew my mind, I'll give you that," he smiled reminiscently.
The smile set her back a bit. "You haven't smiled at me that way for a while."
She hadn't meant to say the comment (intergalactic spies rarely speak without thinking) but as soon as it was spoken she concluded she could have done worse. (intergalactic spies rarely ever admit mistakes)
The question rested heavily on the air between them. His smile vanished, but the look in his eyes had not yet faded. It heated her soul, and she slowly smiled back.
Covington (hang the woman) reluctantly entered the foyer.
Emma wanted to snarl. "Yes, Covington?" she enunciated through her teeth.
Covington meekly gave the message she was charged with: "Dr. Smith called to tell you that you could take your time in getting to her office for you lunch; she is running late." Just as quickly as she gave the message, she vanished into the recesses of the house to continue her Covington-like duties.
As he heard the words, the magic in his gaze dissolved and he looked away, his expression darkened.
Though she felt no need to elaborate (intergalactic spies rarely do) she found herself talking before she could think (a strange habit, this was becoming), "I'm going to have lunch and go shopping with Harmony Smith. We're having dinner tonight as well."
He remained silent at first. When he met her eyes again, he simply said, "Don't make attachments you intend to sever." And then he turned, and left.
To whom? Her, or you? she watched him, thoughtfully. "Until next time, George."
Emma was early for her lunch appointment with Dr. Harmony Smith on purpose. She inconspicuously placed a small mike in a plant outside the office and put on an earpiece to alert her to the comings and goings outside Dr. Smith's office.
While Covington's message was ill-timed, it was most fortunate, Emma considered, looking around Harmony's office. While it was still somewhat dull, it still had some personality.
It was honestly simple. There was nothing wanting in the style. The walls displayed Dr. Smith's degrees from the University of Michigan. The bookshelves were chock full of medical journals and books. It was neat, but it wasn't sparkling.
There was an occasional framed crayon drawing, labeled "To Dr. Harmony" in childish messy writing, which surprised Emma. There were no pictures of Harmony's fiancé, but one of her family, one of each other her brothers.
The office, Emma concluded, was furnished with patients' gifts, and each was valued, shown by its placement.
Emma took note of the vents, exits, and windows denoted by the floorplans she'd examined earlier. She took a palm-sized digital camera out of her purse to snap views out of each window discretely.
The desk was simple to examine. Boring drawers. Nothing sentimental. All files and papers. Seeing the Palm V on Harmony's desk, she took out her transmitter and downloaded the schedule for later examination. Harmony would be the type to put in her appointments all into a Palm, despite all the appointment books in the front office.
She was tempted to download the computer files into a disk as well, but she decided that there was probably nothing of interest there, and so she left it alone.
Ah. There. Sitting on the corner of Dr. Smith's desk, grinning widely back at her, was the fattest, ugliest Chessy cat paper weight she'd ever seen. It was undoubtedly what she was looking for.
She took her purse, and instead of opening the obvious top clasp, reached into the side seam, and unhooked there, and opened to expose two molds filled with bubble-gum pink paste, the stuff that orthodontists used to take plasters of teeth. She encompassed the cat in it, pressed firmly, and removed the cat and clasped the purse again. When the plaster hardened, she'd duplicate it. The cat was made out of clay, she noted. From the smell, she could tell it was handmade with a certain blend in Mexico. (Intergalactic spies know cheap pottery) Shaking it, she heard the movement of sand inside. Run of the mill sand, she estimated, nothing special.
She was about to use a sensor to find out if her guess was indeed correct (of course it was, she's an intergalactic spy) when she heard the rhythm of Harmony's steps (which she'd memorized last night) in her earpiece. She quickly put down the paperweight, removed the earpiece and placed it in her bag, and seated herself. So she would not be able to ascertain the contents. No matter. She knew it was right. Dr. Smith was not an avid chessy cat paper weight collector; there were not any others in the office, she'd made sure of it. It was all in the bag, literally. The mission was as good as finished.
"Sorry to keep you waiting," Harmony apologized. "I hope you got my message."
"Oh, I did. I just had the time, and I was curious to see your office."
"Well, I'm sure you've seen enough," Harmony smiled tiredly. "Let's get going. We have an hour."
Emma smiled. "Doctor's orders."