Читать книгу A Compromising Affair - Gwynne Forster, Gwynne Forster - Страница 7

Scott Galloway had one cardinal rule: he was never late. He abhorred tardiness. But owing to exceptional circumstances, he arrived at Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport with only forty minutes to spare before he needed to fasten his seat belt on flight DL7777. His secretary had already checked him in, so he made a dash for security, and then suddenly stopped.

He didn’t have a second to spare, but as he hurried through the terminal he noticed an old woman sitting beside two pieces of luggage. He couldn’t leave without finding out whether she needed help.

“Are you alone, ma’am?” he asked her, glancing at his watch.

“Son, I’ve been sitting here in this airport for forty-five minutes. The taxi driver brought my bags inside and left me, and I’m still here.”

The air rushed out of him as he thought about the possibility of missing his flight. There was no way he was going to arrive late for his first assignment as an ambassador. But he thought of his beloved grandmother back in Baltimore and her insistence upon driving alone wherever she went.

“I’ll be back in a minute, ma’am.” He found an airport security officer. “I’m about to miss my flight,” he told the man, “but a woman sitting over there needs help.”

“What’s your flight number?” the man asked. Scott told him. “Come with me.” They went to where the old woman sat with her bags. “Do you know your flight number, ma’am?”

“Flight DL7777. I get off in Copenhagen.”

“Both of you come with me.” The security officer got a wheelchair for the woman, checked her in, gave her a ticket, rushed her through security and got both of them to the gate minutes before the door to the aircraft closed.

Scott took his seat in first class, nearly out of breath but with the satisfaction one gets from having done a good deed. He enjoyed a pleasant flight and conversation with his seatmate, a Dane en route to Copenhagen, until sleep overcame him. The next morning the plane made its scheduled landing in Copenhagen, Denmark, and passengers began to disembark. He walked to the plane’s exit door along with his seatmate and waited until he saw the elderly woman.

“There you are,” she said with a smile that reflected her delight in seeing him. “Give me your card, please.” She looked at it, and her eyes widened. “An ambassador? And you almost missed the flight helping me.”

“We both made it, ma’am. I wouldn’t have felt right leaving you there.” He turned to the man who had been his seatmate. “Will you see that she gets a taxi?” He reached in his pocket for money to pay for the taxi.

“No, please,” the Danish man said. “It will be my pleasure to see that she gets home safely.”

Scott bade them goodbye and went back to his seat as the plane resumed the next leg of the flight. Late that day, he finally arrived in Vilnius, Lithuania—a city with a dreary, baroque facade—for the first time. When he stepped off the plane, the first secretary of the embassy greeted him.

“Welcome, Mr. Ambassador, and welcome to Lithuania. We have been awaiting you with great anticipation.”

“Thank you.” Scott shook his head. Mr. Ambassador, he thought. He had worked long and hard for the title, and he loved the sound of it. But as he looked around at the difference between what he saw and what he had left behind in the States, he wondered what his two-year tour would mean, personally and professionally.

Several days later, he received a personal letter, and the backward-slanted handwriting on the envelope puzzled him. He opened it and read:

Dear Ambassador Galloway,

Thank you for coming to my rescue in Reagan National Airport and for introducing me to Lars Erickson, who lives about eight blocks from me. He took me home. I think it may be time I stopped traveling around the world by myself. But I wanted to see the States, and I’m so glad I went there.

My trip could have ended badly, but for you. However, what you did for me wasn’t a surprise, because you are a charitable man. I knew you would come along, so I wasn’t afraid. You’ll do well in Lithuania, though you won’t like the place very much.

Your happiness is in the States. You’ve already seen her, but your interest was elsewhere, and you didn’t notice. Besides, you were a little peeved. She’s very near to your older brother. I’m not a fortune-teller. I see. And I am never wrong. So enjoy your work in Vilnius and then go back home. Your happiness is there.

Yours,

Helga Wilander

P.S. You do like horses, don’t you?

Scott read the letter several times. If she were a seer, why didn’t she know that he didn’t have an older brother? He was the eldest son. He decided to write and ask her.

Dear Mrs. Wilander,

I was glad to hear from you and to know that you arrived home safely. I liked what you said about my future, but I don’t have an older brother, unless there’s something that I don’t know about? If you get a notion to travel again soon, why not visit me here in Vilnius?

Yours,

Scott Galloway

Six days later, Scott looked through his incoming mail and saw Helga’s unusual scrawl. He slit open the envelope and read:

Dear Scott,

I knew you’d answer, but I hadn’t thought I’d get your letter so soon. Of course I know you don’t have an older blood brother, Scott. But you have an older buddy with whom you are closer than most blood brothers, and you have been since you were five or six years old. Trust me, Scott. You’ll find her near your brother. Maybe when I get the urge to travel again, I’ll pay you a visit.

Your friend,

Helga

Scott folded the letter and put it in his wallet. All the women around his friend Judson, who he had to admit was like an older brother, were married. And Heather, Judson’s fiancée, didn’t have a sister or any close female friends that he knew of. In fact, he was Heather’s best buddy.

“Nobody can accurately predict the future,” he said to himself. “And that includes Helga Wilander.” With a dismissive shrug, he flicked on his desk lamp and settled down to the business of being a United States ambassador.