The Thing With Margot

By Timothy Best

Margot Laurent seems like the perfect girl next door. She likes romantic movies, baking, decorating, listens to chirpy love songs, and she never uses foul language because she thinks it’s unladylike. Yep, she’s many a man’s dream. Except she also happens to be a deadly assassin for a foreign government.

When a hit goes wrong in London, Margot is sent into hibernation in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. There she meets Bennett Chambers, a charming but unassuming history professor. Both he and Margot see something special in one other, and when the sparks start to fly, so do the bullets when the brother of Margot's latest victim comes seeking revenge. Get ready to laugh, cry, and go 'round the world on a heart-pounding adventure. The thing with Margot is -- she's killer fun!

• Language: English
• Publisher: TouchPoint Press
• Release date: Nov 10, 2017
• ISBN: 9781641865975

Timothy Best

Timothy Best has been a writer for more than twenty-five years. In the advertising business, tens of millions of people have seen or heard the TV and radio commercials he’s written and produced. He’s written for household brands such as A&W, Buick, Chrysler, General Electric, Jeep, Kmart, Little Caesar’s, Honda, and more recently, he’s been one of the writers that brings to life the highly popular character of Mayhem for Allstate Insurance. He is the recipient of over 180 advertising honors, and also teaches copywriting at the University of Alabama.

Book preview

1 A QUIET KILLING

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MARGOT LAURENT HURRIED DOWN THE hotel service stairway after having just assassinated Amin Hofstra, the deposed president of Benjuzi. She was wearing a tan housekeeping uniform with a gray hoodie over it. The hit hadn’t gone as planned. Hofstra was supposed to have had only one bodyguard outside his door. That had been the routine for days. But tonight it was different. There were two guards in the hallway and two more in the suite. The two in the hall were relatively easy: one shot to the head each with her Glock and silencer that she’d concealed in the fresh towels she carried. But when one of the men fell, the back of his foot hit the door and alerted the guards inside that something might be wrong. Things got messy when she got into the suite. Amin had his cell in his hand by the time she put three rounds into him, but she wasn’t actually sure if he had spoken to someone.

Maybe I should’ve postponed, she told herself, jumping the last couple of steps between floors. The extra security definitely should’ve been a reason to call things off. But she was tired. She’d been following her mark for four days to determine his routine in London, and her orders had read: With all expediency. Besides, there was something else going on with her. A feeling she couldn’t explain. Sometimes, she would’ve called it anxiousness. Other times, she would’ve labeled it apathy. Whatever it was, she didn’t want to be on the job. She wanted to go home and bake. There was a new recipe for bread pudding she’d gotten from the pastry chef at the Savoy, and she wanted to go home and try it. She was also missing her Hallmark movies. And her tai chi classes. So she wasn’t about to let some petty third-world dictator who had been found guilty of committing mass genocide against his own people stand in the way of nesting needs. As for the extra bodies, she wasn’t all that concerned. There were at least two radical factions in Benjuzi as well as two Middle East-based terrorist groups Amin had betrayed, and they openly called for his death. Still, at this particular moment, she wished she had waited.

She suddenly heard the echo of a door opening in the stairway beneath her and two sets of footsteps charging up the metal stairs coming toward her.

More guards? she thought. That can’t be! Unless…

Unless Amin’s brother, Kahdid Hofstra, was now in London and had beefed-up security.

Amin and Kahdid were notorious for arguing a lot. More than once, Kahdid had stormed out on his brother and duties as the head of presidential security. As recently as twenty-six hours earlier, Kahdid had been spotted in Dubai. He was sunning poolside at the Hilton and apparently not interested in his brother’s safety or his failed attempts to win political asylum. In fact, his absence was an incentive for her being sent. But now, things had clearly changed. Meaning, Margot, the hunter, was suddenly the hunted.

She paused and leaned against the unpainted cinderblock walls to allow her adrenaline to slow and collect her thoughts. Then she dipped a dainty hand into one of her hoodie pockets and pulled out an iPod and a pair of earbuds. With all of her training, she knew this was absolutely the wrong thing to do. She needed to keep her mind sharp and her ears open. But Margot Laurent didn’t always follow her training. She followed her instincts. She was about to find herself in a firefight for her life, and if she was going to die, she decided she was going to do it listening to Colbie Caillat.

She put in her earbuds, selected a song, hit play, then slipped the iPod back into her hoodie pocket. She always kept her music separate from her phone because, in her business, she was always changing them. Reaching into the right pocket of her housekeeping uniform, she pulled out her silencer with one hand, then reached into her left uniform pocket for her Glock. Screwing one into the other, she leaned off the wall and peeked down in between the stairs to see where her pursuers were now since she couldn’t hear them coming anymore. While Colbie sang about a happy feeling in her toes, a man with a gun came around the flight of stairs just beneath her. She suddenly appeared twelve steps above him in a firing stance, and the Glock spat out a muffled round. The pursuer jerked back from the strike to the forehead, and some of his brains splattered against the cinderblock wall.

As she raced down the stairs and hopped over the body, Margot knew the other pursuer was just a few steps behind the first. As Colby sang on about her lover making her smile, the second pursuer spotted Margot and blasted off a round. It whizzed past her, missing her torso by inches, and slammed into the cinderblock wall behind her leaving a sizeable hole.

Returning fire with two successive shots, Margot hit the second man in the neck and collarbone. He dropped his gun and went down, but neither shot was fatal. She quickly descended the stairs and, without stopping, put a third round into his heart. By the time Margot opened the door to the street, Colbie was singing about comfort and warmth. Cautiously looking around, she checked her wristwatch. It was 12:12 a.m. on a cool February night. London, England was winding down, but it never really stopped. As her blue eyes scanned the evening shadows, she saw four people bundled up in coats and chatting on the corner of Strand Street—known more commonly as The Strand—a dozen yards away. Meanwhile, just across the narrow side street she was about to step onto, there was a black taxicab. The driver was looking at her. Taking comfort in Colbie’s positive attitude and plucky acoustic guitar, she tucked her weapon with its long silencer under her arm inside the hoodie and stepped out onto the street, keeping the taxi driver in her peripheral vision.

Within a few steps, she’d determined that everyone around her were civilians, so she crossed the street and climbed into a nickel-colored Peugeot 208 XY that she’d stolen from a police impoundment lot just outside the town of Reading the night before. Pulling away from the curb, she came to a stop sign on a corner of The Strand and parallel to the four pedestrians still chatting pleasantly across the side street from her. To her left and ten yards beyond the pedestrians was the well-lit entranceway of the hotel from which she’d just escaped.

Suddenly appearing in that entranceway was Kahdid Hofstra who had just run out of the hotel. He was breathing heavily and looking around. He was a formidable figure standing at six-feet-two and weighing 240 pounds. He was wearing a dark-blue blazer, silk shirt with two chains around his neck, and khaki slacks. He had dark skin with thick black hair and angry charcoal eyes. When those eyes locked on Margot staring at him from her car and past the people chatting on the corner, he knew instantly she was the one he was after. He saw her for only a second or two, but he knew. Margot turned the corner and drove down The Strand, not speeding away, but not tarrying either.

In her rearview mirror, she saw Kahdid hail another black taxicab as one of his men came running outside carrying a long, tubular case with a shoulder strap. In another thirty seconds, Colbie Caillat was replaced by Joni Mitchell singing a song just as perky as the last one. As a young and optimistic Joni from early in her career sang about the sun pouring in through her windows like butterscotch, the side-view mirror on the Peugeot exploded into shards of glass and bits of plastic. Slamming the accelerator to the floor, Margot calmly looked at what was left of the dangling side-view mirror, then glanced in her rearview mirror at the dark taxi coming after her. She correctly assumed that Kahdid had yanked the driver out of the vehicle and was now behind the wheel. While his meaty right hand clutched the steering wheel, his left hand held a Walther PPK out of the open driver’s side window and fired it repeatedly. Another second later, a round slammed through her back window, passed through the car and went out the front windshield, missing her head by centimeters. As Joni’s poetic lyrics filled Margot’s brain about incense and candles, she weaved the silver Peugeot in and out of the late night traffic as if the other vehicles on the road were standing still. Unfortunately, Kahdid Hofstra was just as good a driver as Margot, and he was not only keeping pace, but catching up.

Just before Trafalgar Square, Kahdid’s man, riding in the back seat, leaned out the passenger side window with what had been in the tubular case. It was an Israeli B-300 shoulder-mounted rocket launcher.

Seeing this in her mirror, Margot moaned, Oh, fudge! since she considered bad language common and unladylike. The back end of the launcher hissed and expelled some smoke while the front end spat out a plume of fire and a high explosive anti-armor rocket capable of penetrating eight inches of solid concrete. It cut through the air at two hundred miles per hour while Joni’s voice trickled like clear mountain water over smooth stones in a creek. Margot unbuckled her shoulder strap, then turned off her music as the vapor trail behind her raced toward her trunk.

The Strand had turned into Route A4 by the time the rocket struck the rear of the Peugeot. The trunk lid was blown off its hinges and soared, flipping and turning, ten feet into the air. Simultaneously, the silver car tipped over onto its passenger side, quickly becoming a fireball of screeching metal and spinning tires. It slid in between the concrete bollards protecting the Nelson Monument in the middle of Trafalgar Square and slammed into one of the four bronze lions at the base of Lord Nelson’s column. Fortunately, each twenty-foot-long lion sat on a five-foot-high concrete pedestal that absorbed most of the crash.

A few tourists who were still in the square at this late hour scattered like pigeons to escape the burning hulk of the Peugeot. A police car that happened to be passing by screeched to a halt. An officer hopped out and ran toward the fiery wreck. Seconds later, the taxi that Kahdid and his man had commandeered likewise skidded to a halt at the side of the square. Kahdid jumped out of the car with his gun drawn and his man following close behind. Turning from the fire and seeing a man with a handgun approach, the unarmed officer ordered, Stop right there! before Kahdid shot him in the face without giving him a second thought. Next, he walked toward the burning car and looked closely inside, trying to see a body. He peered into the flames for several seconds until he determined the Peugeot was empty.

Kahdid! the man with him called urgently, looking at the tourists who were now timidly stepping toward the scene with their cell phones raised. Kahdid!

Tucking his Walther back into the shoulder holster under his blazer, Kahdid Hofstra cursed quietly, knowing his brother’s killer had escaped.

2 HIBERNATION

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THIRTEEN DAYS AFTER THE HOFSTRA incident in London, Margot sat in a waiting area on the fourth floor of the Canadian Security Intelligence Service headquarters in Ottawa. Usually, she was an attractive twenty-seven-year-old but not at the moment. Her left cheek and both of her arms, from the wrists to the elbows, were scraped and scabbed from hopping out of a speeding car and rolling uncontrollably over the pavement. Her left foot was also in a black surgical boot from a bad sprain, and a cane leaned against the chair beside her. Even though she’d tried her best to look presentable with makeup, a white blouse, black skirt, and a JM Collection teal cardigan, she looked more pitiful than pretty. Sitting on the floor at her feet was a rectangular insulated food-warming basket.

As she sat there, fellow government employees walked by, going in either one direction or another, up and down a long corridor that was just behind the area where she sat. She seemed oblivious to the buzzing activity until two men, both wearing gray suits and visitor badges clipped to their lapels, approached. One had close-cropped blond hair and was about her age. The other was about ten years older and had a shaved head. The younger one, a man named Steve Finkel, recognized her. Seeing her in profile from her undamaged right side, he remembered the attractive woman he met when on an assignment in the Middle East. She had blue eyes, long brown hair that sat six inches below her shoulders, and bangs that were cut straight across her forehead like a 1960’s fashion model. She was slender for her height of five–foot seven but toned. She looked younger than her age and had an innocent, earnest face that made it seem like she had just come from choir practice instead of the gun range.

Jennifer? the blond-haired man asked.

Margot turned, looked up, and her face broke into a smile. Normally, her beaming smile was one of her best features. It suggested that there couldn’t possibly be anything duplicitous behind those straight, white teeth and clear eyes. But today, it was different. When she looked up, the men saw the injuries on the left side of her face.

Steve! How nice to see you!

Jesus, girl! Finkel said with a furrowed brow. What happened to you?

I know, she said, rolling her eyes. I’m a mess! Skiing accident in Boulder. If only they’d remove those pesky trees from the slopes. She looked him over. So, what’s the CIA doing in Ottawa?

Oh, sorry, Steve said, remembering his manners and turning toward his expressionless companion. This is Special Agent Dwain Barbour from our DC office. Dwain, Jennifer Mitchell. No, wait a minute, he said, leaning in and reading the identification lanyard she wore around her neck. This is actually—‘Margot Laurent.’

Mitchell’s the name he knew me by in Libya, she explained, extending her hand.

How ya doin’? Barbour mumbled, shaking her hand but only out of politeness. Skiing accident, huh? he observed, looking at her arms. For doing a Sonny Bono with a tree, those look an awful lot like pavement scrapes. He eyed her seriously. You have anything to do with that debacle in London?

I’m sorry, Margot smiled. I’ve been in the hospital. What are you talking about?

Amin Hofstra, Steve clarified.

We know it was either you guys or the Brits, Barbour continued. But a lot of people think it was us. I’ve taken a bunch of heat for this epic-sized screwup. Not only that but after we flew in last night, I couldn’t even watch the Knicks play the Pistons on TV.

American football’s not real big in Ottawa, Margot replied.

Know what I did get to watch? Barbour continued. A dart game. A freakin’ dart game! What kind of country televises darts?

"What kind of country televises Hoarders?" Margot answered.

They were interrupted by an efficient-looking young woman wearing glasses and pinned-up hair. Miss Laurent, she’s ready for you.

Thank you, Margot said, reaching for her cane. As she did, the young woman picked up her insulated food basket to assist her, then led the way.

Well, boys, she said, climbing to her feet, it was nice to see you.

Nice to know your real name, Steve smiled. I mean—if it’s really Laurent.

It is today, she said, a little coy.

She looked at Barbour. Nice to meet you.

Yeah, the bald man nodded. By the way, the Knicks and Pistons are basketball teams.

I know, she replied. The New York Knicks and Detroit Pistons. I was messing with you.

Be careful out there on the ‘slopes,’ Finkel reminded.

I will, she said, limping away. Thanks.

When she was out of earshot, Barbour turned to his associate. So, Barbie doll there is one of Canada’s best assets, huh? What does she do, throw bottles of nail polish at her targets?

Well, I did see her kill a guy by jamming a nail file through his eye, Steve remembered.

When was this?

Three years ago outside Sabratha. I had two bullets in me, and she got me to a safe house.

Uh-huh, the sterner one said, watching her go but more impressed.

The furnishings in Katherine Pelham’s corner office on the fourth floor of CSIS headquarters were much like its occupant, stylish and sleek. Pelham had been a field agent for twelve years before becoming an administrator. She was blond, fifty, remarkably fit, and since she never married or had children, indulged herself with clothing, travel, and shoes. She sat behind a glass top desk in a tulip red Dolce & Gabbana suit, with bifocals on her nose reading a report on her laptop. When her assistant and Margot came in, she removed the glasses, smiled, and rose.

Margot, how are you feeling? she asked.

Doctor Cate says I’m eighty percent good, the younger one nodded. But I’m tired of these flat heels.

Pelham eyed the insulated basket her assistant set on a side table next to one of the two Danish modern chairs in front of her desk. What’s this?

Oh, you’ve got to try this, Margot said, sitting down and reaching over to the basket to unzip it.

What is it?

Warm bread pudding, Margot answered, producing two Chinet plates and some silverware.

I love bread pudding! Katherine gushed, knowing how Margot liked to bake.

I got the recipe from the pastry chef at the Savoy, the younger one said, pulling out then opening a Tupperware container that held the delicacy.

We’ve got to talk about London, Pelham said, rounding her desk and sitting in the chair next to Margot. The CIA’s pretty upset with me.

I know, Margot answered, cutting the pudding and putting some on a plate. I just ran into Steve Finkel and Dwain Barbour in the lobby. She handed the plate with a fork and a napkin to Katherine.

"Yeah… somebody ought to tell Special Agent Barbour the angry Kojak thing doesn’t work anymore."

He said a lot of people are assuming the CIA was behind the hit, Margot said, serving herself.

He’s fishing, Katherine said, taking a bite of the pudding. The left hand in his country doesn’t know what the right is doing, I mean, his own Department of Homeland Security was consulted beforehand and—oh—oh, my God, she said, smacking her lips. This is fabulous!

I know, Margot agreed.

It’s so—

I know!

Is this caramel dripped over the top? Oh, this’ll turn a night in a Vera Wang into a week of Jenny Craig.

I know, Margot nodded.

The women stopped talking for several moments and simply ate their pudding while enjoying the day. There was a large glass window behind Pelham’s desk, and the sun was shining brightly. The trees and grass didn’t have any snow, although this far north and with it being only March, both knew more winter was coming. As she ate, Katherine looked at Margot with examining eyes. She understood her protégée better than most. She knew why she liked to wear skirts, bake, not use bad language, and watch movies on the Hallmark Channel. It was an escape from the gritty underbelly of killing people for a living.

After nearly a minute respite, Pelham finished her pudding, set her plate on her desk, dabbed her ruby red lips with a napkin, then rose and returned to business.

We’re in a funny business, Margot, she noted, rounding her desk. Most people are smart enough to know their government has trained killers, but they don’t want the actions of those killers splashed all over the media. The Americans, the British, our Prime Minister—everyone’s pretty pissed.

The hit was sanctioned, Margot defended.

True, Pelham agreed, sitting down in the black leather chair behind her desk. Amin Hofstra probably got more due process from his international peers than he did in his own country. The man was a monster! He raped women without fear of consequence, stole millions from the Benjuzi treasury, harbored known terrorist groups until he alienated them, and after his people tried to rise up against him, he murdered over 100,000 in retribution including women and children. A second coup was finally successful, and he stood trial, but he escaped after conviction. No doubt thanks to his brother.

But? Margot said, knowing a ‘but’ was coming.

But, this was supposed to be a quiet killing, Pelham said, gesturing to some newspapers on her desk. A question of who-done-it. Not eight people dead, one of them a police officer, and a high-speed chase that ended with a burning crash into a national monument. When you saw Hofstra’s security had changed, why did you proceed with the hit?

My orders said, ‘With all expediency,’ she reminded.

C’mon, Margot, her superior scolded, the beefed-up security was a game changer and you know it!

Margot’s shoulders slumped a little and her eyes sank to the floor. Pelham was tempted to say more to drive home the point that her operative had made a terrible call, but could see it wasn’t necessary. So, she took a deep breath instead and changed subjects.

I want you to disappear for a while. Go into hibernation.

What? Why?

For one thing, you’re no good to me in your present condition. You’re a limping billboard of our involvement. For another, you were seen by Kahdid Hofstra. There isn’t a doubt in my mind he’s going to be looking for you.

He saw me for, like, two seconds! Margot protested, In a car! At midnight!

Pelham slipped her bifocals back on and referenced the report on her computer screen. He saw you at a stop sign where there were streetlights and illumination from the hotel entranceway. You also left shell casings behind. If he finds a way to trace you through those…

He won’t, Margot assured.

He might, Pelham answered.

The guy’s a gorilla with gold chains, Margot shrugged. His IQ and belt size are the same. You think he’s got a forensics lab in his hip pocket?

"I think if you saw him long enough to notice he wears gold chains, he saw you long enough to remember your face, Katherine reasoned. I also think he’s got a dead brother and probably feels guilty about all the times he walked out on him. He’s also got his brother’s money now, meaning he can afford to hunt. She took off her bifocals again, firm in her resolve. I’ll send an email to Procurement authorizing assistance. I want you gone, Margot, but stay away from the usual haunts like the Bahamas or the South of France. That’s where spies always hide out. It’s so cliché."

Well, how long am I supposed to be gone?

Until I say you can come back, Pelham answered. She put her glasses back on and opened a manila folder on her desk and began to read, signaling their visit was over.

Margot silently started to pack up the plates and the dessert.

No, her boss said, not looking up from her reading. Leave the pudding.

The agent smiled slightly and nodded, then reached for her cane and rose.

Seven minutes later, Margot had taken an elevator ride and opened the door to her office. It was a quarter the size of Katherine’s, and on one of the three CSIS floors that were below ground level, so it had no windows. Margot hated her office. Partly because it didn’t have any view and partly because she couldn’t do anything with it by way of decorating or personal touches because of strict government regulations. So, to make up for its bland light yellow walls and impersonal overhead florescent lighting, she’d hung maps of different regions of the world around her office. Behind her desk was a map of Western Europe. On the wall to the right was a map of Africa and the Middle East. To the left, was a map of Eastern Europe and the Soviet block. Directly across from her desk on the back of her door was a map of Canada and the US. She limped into the room then around her desk carrying a handful of inner-office memos she’d picked up from her mailbox. Some of them were in sealed brown envelopes that said Eyes Only stamped on the front.

Dropping the mail on her desk, sitting down, then picking up a letter opener that she’d purchased in Greece, she opened the first memo and started to read. But she wasn’t really reading. She was still thinking about Katherine’s orders to disappear. She didn’t want to go out on the road again. She wanted to catch up on sewing. She wanted to paint her bathroom. She wanted to get out her collection of Ukrainian eggs and start working on them again. Usually, she was very diligent about her work and an obedient soldier. But she seemed distracted these days. She was hoping if she could lose herself in a project around the house her sense of focus would return. But now, she was being sent away again. She nervously flipped the letter opener in between her fingers and tried to get her mind back into her memo. But after a few more seconds of realizing she wasn’t retaining a thing, she angrily hurled the opener across her desk in frustration. It landed with a solid THWACK in her door and map of the United States. Specifically, in the state of Alabama.

Curiously looking at the stuck letter opener, she rose from her chair and slowly hobbled over to the wall. Leaning in to see where it had landed, she saw that it had torn a hole through the middle of a town named Tuscaloosa.

3 PROCUREMENT

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SKIPPY-SKIPPY-SKIPPY, MARGOT SAID, LIMPING WITH her cane toward the man in the cubicle who had his back to her and three computer screens in front of him.

Don’t call me Skippy, he replied, recognizing her voice while working on a keyboard.

Sorry, Skip,’ she corrected. Procurement Specialist Skip Hackett was twenty-eight years old and nice-looking in a geeky sort of way. He was Asian, wiry, wore frameless glasses, and usually favored checkered shirts, blue jeans, and red tennis shoes. Today was no exception.

Boy, you really screwed the pooch in London, he said.

Thank you, she said, disingenuously.

He swiveled around in his chair to see Margot in his cubicle entranceway.

Oh, my God, you look awful! he said, eyeing her scabs, scratches, and cane. Absolutely disgusting! Marry me.

She smiled whimsically. Hard to believe a sweet talker like you is still on the market.

No. I mean it. Marry me. Who else is gonna be understanding and help fix you when you come home broken?

It was the umpteenth time that Skip had proposed to her. It was a little a game they played; although, Margot suspected he really liked her.

You’re incredibly sweet, Skip, and I’m terribly fond of you. But I can’t marry a man who thinks a poster of the Millennium Falcon is legitimate wall art.

What’s wrong with a poster of the Millennium Falcon? he asked.

Nothing. If it’s in your bedroom and you’re, like, twelve.

So, if I take mine down we can get married?

She smiled and shook her head. If I ever did marry, I’d want it to be somebody normal.

Why? he asked.

Maybe because I’ve never had it.

Normal’s overrated, he waved off.

Sometimes, normal sounds pretty good, she said with a faraway look.

Fine, he said, turning back to his keyboard again and beginning to type. If we’re not going to exchange vows today, what do you need?

Katherine wants me to go into hibernation for a while.

Yeah, I got an email about that, he said. Where are we off to this time?

Tuscaloosa, Alabama, she said. Home of the University of Alabama Crimson Tide.

He stopped again and turned back to her disbelievingly. You want to go to Alabama?

She nodded.

On purpose? he asked.

I’m going to need an Indiana driver’s license, passport, social security number and—

Alabama’s not a town in Indiana, hon, he interrupted, turning back to his keyboard.

It’s for the backstory, she clarified. Oh, and transcripts from a school. Let’s say, the University of Indiana. I might want to take some classes during my time in Tuscaloosa. You never know.

Skip finished with what he was typing, then took a deep, exasperated breath and turned back his associate. Anything else?

A car with some discreetly hidden field equipment, money, credit card—and a place to live. Preferably an older home that I can fix up while I’m staying there.

You want the agency to buy you a house?

No, renting’s fine. Just so I can fix it up.

Then, that means buying.

But it’s got to be a single dwelling. We don’t want to involve any students or neighbors in anything.

You want me to make you the governor’s cousin too? he asked. No, wait, that would also make you his wife, wouldn’t it?

Margot gave her coworker a smirk.

This is a pretty tall order, Hackett said. I’ve got to get budget approval from Katherine.

You want to marry me, but you can’t insert me into one little town, she protested.

I didn’t say I couldn’t do it… I just-just give me some time here.

Thank you, Skip, she said, patting him on the shoulder, then turning to leave.

Hey, Margot, he called.

Yes? she paused, turning back.

You know, I’ve got some vacation coming. Maybe I could take some time off… show up in a certain southern college town.

You’re sweet, she smiled. I don’t deserve you. But some lucky girl will someday.

She