by China, Max
"Morning, I have this for you; it wouldn't fit through the box, and I didn't want to leave it on the step in the rain…"
"Thanks," he said, taking the parcel. "You don't need a signature?"
"No, whoever sent it, posted it first class. I checked the label. Only took two days." He grinned. "I've known second class post to arrive before first lately. Post office is going to pot! You have a good day."
"Thanks. You too."
The style of writing on the address label was broad and florid. He thought he recognised it. He picked up his coffee and took the parcel into his conservatory. Setting the cup down, he carefully unwrapped the package. Carla's face stared up at him from the back cover. He was familiar with the photograph; he remembered telling her when she'd first showed it to him and told him of her intention to use it for her book. If you put that photograph on the cover of the book - it would sell millions.
He quickly scanned the words on the back and then turned the book over to read the front cover. The picture struck fear into his heart. It was of a man wearing a gas mask, dressed in a navy-blue boiler suit. The title read:
The Boilerman Killings -
The Life and Times of William Martin Boyle
By Carla Black
He smiled. She has guts. Picking up his coffee, he began to read.
He called her at around lunchtime. She couldn't keep the excitement from her voice. "Well, what did you think?"
"It's very good," he said, hesitance dampening his enthusiasm.
"You don't have to say that if you don't mean it."
"I do mean it, it's very good, and I loved that photograph of you on the back."
"Thank you," she said. "You sound as if you're going to say, but…"
"I'm just not sure about the ending."
"How so?"
"He remains at large . . ." He paused, "I prefer to think of him dead."
The sound of her sucking air between her teeth came down the line. "Miller, you must know he's still alive."
"Maybe. You know if he sees this, he'll come after you."
"I'm banking on it," she giggled. "Can you imagine what a story that would make?"
"Always the story, Carla. Don't you ever think about anything else?"
She laughed, "I think you know that I do. How about dinner tonight? We have a lot of catching up to do. Boyle's in Morocco. I think I know where to find him. We'll talk about it later, yes?"
Morocco. A voice inside told him not to go.
"Carla, not tonight. I'm busy. I'll call you tomorrow." He turned the phone off. His thoughts drifted. I see three women. Only one is good for you…
Three women… Who were they? He liked Carla a lot, but he knew they'd only find trouble together. He'd not had feelings for anyone since Josie the way he felt for Stella, but would she turn out to be wrong for him too? He didn't want to hurt, or be hurt. What if the yet unknown woman came along and blew him away.
He shook his head, and then grinned. In his heart, he knew the answer.
The End
The Road Not Taken
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveller, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy, and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages, and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less travelled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Robert Frost (1874–1963) - Mountain Interval
