Red Midnight Read Free Page A

speaking English like in Oslo or Stockholm.”
    “I know, I know,” Erin soothed her friend with patience. “I have the book you gave me, and I’ve been reading up on rules and regulations and language! Trust me, Mary, I’ll be okay. Contrary to popular opinion, I do have a mind, a rather quick one at that. You’re not letting an illiterate waif loose in the big bad streets!” Erin laughed. “I’ve survived New York for twenty-eight years! Surely, I must have acquired a certain amount of survival savvy.”
    Mary smiled. “I just worry about you, Erin.”
    Erin clutched Mary’s fingers on the snowy white tablecloth. “I know that, Mary, and I appreciate it. But I’ll be fine. I’ll never discuss politics or religion or government. I’ll steer clear of anything that looks remotely military, and I’ll never take a picture without permission. I won’t cross the border with anything that could be called subversive literature. And”—Erin hesitated a moment—“I’ll be so absorbed by the uniqueness of my surroundings that I’ll be able to forget the past. Mary, I need this!”
    Mary felt a little clutch in her throat. Ever since that night Erin had called her in tears, asking desperately if she could come over, she had closed herself in. She had needed to talk that night but she hadn’t been completely coherent. Mary understood Erin’s total disillusionment but not exactly what had happened. And after her fit of rambling tears and a night’s sleep, Erin had sweetly thanked Mary and begged that they not discuss her marriage—or the reasons for its dissolution—anymore.
    Mary had agreed reluctantly, fearing that the short-lived marriage had done Erin serious damage. In all this time she hadn’t had so much as a lunch date with a man.
    But they had been through that round of discussion before. Erin would answer coldly that she simply wasn’t interested in dating, and had no desire ever to marry again. She had her work; she planned to go back to school. That was enough for her.
    “Jeans,” Mary said aloud.
    Erin smiled with amusement and query. “Pardon?”
    “Jeans,” Mary repeated. “Remember, it’s illegal to sell your jeans.”
    Erin laughed, and Mary had to admit that the sound was free and real after a long time when she had barely smiled naturally.
    “Mary! Of all things. I don’t think I’m going to run around trying to sell my jeans! We’d better order,” she said, picking up her menu and turning her interest to the entrees. “I think I’ll have the beef Wellington. What about you?”
    Mary grimaced. “No—I’ll have the spinach salad. Some friend you are,” she moaned. “Models are always supposed to be dieting—and here I am, the green eater. It’s disgusting. I gain weight just by looking at food!”
    “Mary,” Erin protested, “your weight is all in the right places! Ted always says he wants a woman he can hold on to!”
    Mary grinned slowly. “Oh, what the hell. I’ll have the beef Wellington. For Ted.”
    Their waiter came to take their orders. Erin lowered her lashes and smiled as Mary ordered the Beef Wellington, chocolate mousse—and a Diet Pepsi.
    Erin entered her small apartment off Central Park that night with a long sigh, slipping off her heels and edging them beneath the antique deacon’s bench in the entryway. The cool tile welcomed her weary nylon-covered feet, as did the soft pile of beige carpeting as she moved into the living room and tossed both shoulder and tote bags on the old sofa she had just had recovered in soft brown corduroy. She hesitated a minute, then decided that if she gave in. to temptation and tossed her body along with the bags on the sofa she would never get up again. And she sorely needed a cup of tea.
    Erin walked into the kitchen with its cheerful pale yellow accents—a complement to the earth tones of her apartment—and filled the kettle. While she waited for the water to boil, she glanced idly around. Handsome copperware and