The Undertaker

“Wait a minute.” She pushed me back down and put a finger on my lips. “Don't say a word. This should not come as a big surprise to you, but I am utterly in love with you, Peter Talbott. I know you can't use the “L” word yet, and I'm okay with that. But every now and then, give me a little squeeze or a kiss or something so I know you still like me, okay? But not a word. Please. Or you'll break the spell. I'm going to slip into the shower now, and then we'll do your hair.”

Actually, we discovered that even a tiny Amtrak shower could hold two people and a lot of fun. Afterward, she came back in with the bottle of blonde hair dye and wrapped a towel around my shoulders. “We could go for the sun-drenched, poofy-blonde surfer look,” she said. “Or the tousled, freaked-out, white-haired, Rod Stewart look. Or, I could really screw it up, turn your hair green, and watch it fall out in big clumps.”

“How about the former beautician with the black eye look?”

It took her about a half hour, but after I toweled it dry and combed it, I looked at myself in the mirror. The hair and eyebrows were now a nice, natural blonde and the face looking back at me didn't look anything like mine.

“Not bad for a bimbo beauty school graduate, is it?” she asked.

“Well, you never told me you graduated. You going to do yours, too?”

“The black is so… me. But, yeah, I thought I'd try a light brown.”

“Good choice. While you do that, I'll order us an early dinner. The train gets into South Station in Boston at 6:30, but I thought we'd off at Framingham at 5:50 and catch a local into the city. That'll get us closer to Doug's house and we can avoid any unfriendly eyes waiting for us downtown.”

Framingham was in the far western suburbs. We stepped down on the platform and I said goodbye to Phillip, expecting the SWAT team to jump out of the bushes any minute with bullhorns and riot guns, but nothing happened. The streets around the small station were filled with dozens and dozens of luxury cars and SUVs waiting for the commuter trains from the city. We walked into the waiting room. It had four ticket windows, only one of which was open, and a newsstand that sold a little bit of everything from cigarettes to newspapers, candy, and maps. I went over and picked up a Rand McNally map of Boston that showed the railroad and subway routes on one side and a street map on the other.

“You live here,” Sandy said. “What do you need a map for?”

“I only moved here two months ago. Other than driving to the office in Waltham from my “suck-ass” little apartment in Lexington, as Gino called it, and maybe the Red Sox game Doug dragged me to, you probably know Boston better than I do.”

I looked at the map while she went to the window and bought two commuter train tickets When she came back, we walked outside to the tracks and went around to the other side of a billboard that screened us from the station and the street.

“Another billboard, another train station. Wanna neck?” She pressed against me and moved gently back and forth. “Hmmm. Something tells me you don't mind anymore.”

I leaned my chin on the top of her head. “How much time do we have?”

“About ten minutes. Not enough, is it? So you owe me one.”

“Are you keeping count?”

“You better believe it. An opportunity lost is an opportunity lost… Sister Eugenia.”

The commuter train was on time, but it was a local milk run that stopped at every little station, which was exactly what I wanted. It dropped underground and we finally reached the Back Bay station at 7:00. We walked through the station and took the long flight of stairs up to the street, but nothing looked out of place.

“We're getting pretty good at this sneaky stuff, aren't we?” Sandy asked as we hurried off up Exeter Street. The shadows were getting long and it would be dark soon. A line of storms had swept through while we were on the train, leaving the streets wet and the early evening air warm and damp. I looked up. The sky was clearing. The stars were coming out and it would be a good night for walking.

“Have you ever been here before?” I asked.

“Boston was our spring trip my senior year of high school. Half the class lost their virginity that weekend.”

“What happened to the other half?”

“They became nuns.”

“So, that's the part you remember most? The churches?”

She grinned like a Cheshire cat. “Actually, about all I do remember is a bunch of kids running through the subway cars singing about getting poor Charlie and the MTA.” She pointed back to the round sign with the blue “T” over the subway entrance. “But they called it the “T” by then and that ruined the whole thing. Don't worry, though. I know Boston like the back of my hand; I've read all the Spenser books.”

She wrapped herself around my arm. “Are you still okay with this?’

“Are you going to keep asking?”

“About every five minutes, so you better get used to it.”

Being a man of few words, I lifted her off the ground and gave her a big kiss.