December 21
New Yorkers were greeted by three inches of snow when they woke Monday morning. That was just enough to add a touch of Dickensian charm to the holiday season without creating a messy commute or having to close schools. Since areas to the north and west got higher accumulations, there were quite a few people late to work at Hobson and Rowe, mostly those who lived in Connecticut and New Jersey.
At midmorning, while Rosalind was reading a manuscript from one of her favorite authors, Alfred Rowe stuck his head in her office.
"Any word yet from Brett McCord?" he inquired. "I stopped by his house the other day, and the place was vacant."
Rosalind was about to tell the president that everything was fine, that Brett was most likely living in Nantucket and that she and the writer were going to get married, but she thought better of it. Maybe Brett didn't want anyone to know yet. In fact, if word of their relationship got out, it might make his divorce proceedings messy, not to mention more costly.
"No, I haven't heard from him," she lied, although it was technically the truth since the two hadn't actually spoken.
"Strange. He seems to have vanished off the face of the earth."
"You know how writers are."
It was a common expression at Hobson and Rowe and probably at most publishing houses. Many writers were known to be eccentric, and often their odd behavior was chalked up to their creative genius.
"Well, keep me posted. I want to know as soon as you hear from him."
Sure, she thought, I'll send you an invitation to our wedding.
When she got home that night and opened the drawer marked twenty-one, she found a brochure for a cruise ship. Brett had highlighted with a yellow marker a paragraph describing honeymoon cruises.
He remembered!
Not long after they began their affair, they watched Titanic in her apartment, and she told him she'd always wanted to take a cruise.
Maybe the old adage is true; maybe good things do come to those who wait.
