Mrs. Pollifax on the China Station

I”
    ”Yes.”
    ”I see. All right,” he said. ”Are you feeling better now?”
    ”I will soon,” she’d told him unsteadily. ”I have a broken wrist but—but
the purpose of the trip was salvaged, and somewhere out there, heading for the
mountains—I’m sorry, Bishop,” she’d said, her voice breaking again, ”I’m just
so tired. And those mountains—”
    ”It had to be the mountains?”
    ”He thought so, yes, but the most important message right now is Forbes,
Bishop, and whoever—well, betrayed you.”
    There had been a long pause and then Bishop said, ”We’ve got to get you
home as quickly as possible. I’ll immediately get in touch with the airlines
and demand top priority passage for you. In the meantime, however, we’ll start
things rolling at once on Forbes, with all the repercussions that will
bring, for which our eternal thanks, Mrs. Pollifax. Obviously our man in
you-know-where is no longer ours.”
    ”No,” she said, and then, ”Could you, when you learn on what plane I’ll
be returning, let Cyrus know in Connecticut ?”
    ”Gladly,” he said and he, too, rang off.
    Several hours later she had been on her way to. the airport, and she had
been deeply touched by the fact that Iris and Malcolm insisted on accompanying
her to the air terminal. They had parted warmly, with promises to write, and
before moving through the electronic gate she had turned to watch them go—both
so tall and slim, Iris still pushing back her tempestuous hair—and she had seen
that they were holding hands.
    It had occurred to her at that moment—suddenly and with sadness—that
Jenny would now feel that Iris had captured the last man on the tour: first
George, then seemingly Peter and seemingly Joe Forbes, and now Malcolm, and she
would never know the truth.
    As so few of us ever do, she thought, and walked through the gate
to fly home to Cyrus.
    It was a small and private wedding: Mrs. Pollifax’s son, Roger, and her
daughter, Jane; Miss Hartshorne; a few members of her Garden Club, and a few
members of Cyrus’ bird-watching club. Bishop had called to announce that wild
horses and assassinations abroad wouldn’t keep him away. ”Besides,” he’d added
on the phone, ”Carstairs is entrusting me with a wedding gift that he thinks
you may like and it’s too fragile to mail.”
    The day was very warm—it was late August, after all—but the chapel was
cool. Cyrus, giving her an enormous hug, said, ”It’s a promise—wander off any
time you please, Emily, but damn it, m’dear, never again without me.”
    ”Never,” she vowed fervently.
    There was a slight delay while the organist searched frantically for a
missing sheet of music; they waited patiently in the small room near the rear
of the chapel until it became apparent that a mild commotion was taking place
outside the door.
    Cyrus opened it and Mrs. Pollifax heard Bishop’s voice say, ”Hello
there, from the size of you I think you have to be Cyrus?”
    Mrs. Pollifax spun around and cried, ”Bishop! Oh do come in!”
    He stuck his head inside the door. ”It’s me, bringing your wedding
present. Everybody decent and ready?”
    And he walked in, followed by a young man on crutches, wearing jeans, a
T-shirt, and a broad grin.
    ”Peter!” cried Mrs. Pollifax.
    ”Yes,” he said, beaming at her.
    His face was burned from overexposure, there was a clownlike white paste
daubed on his nose, his jaw was peeling, and there was that crutch that he
leaned on as he moved toward her. But he was alive. He was well. He’d survived.
    ”Thank God,” she whispered. ”Oh Cyrus—Cyrus, this is—”
    ”No need to say,” remarked Cyrus. ”It’s Peter, of course. Hello young man.”
    ”Told her to marry you,” Peter said, with a grin.
    Cyrus nodded. ”She’ll be able to sleep nights now, young man... No more
nightmares.”
    So Cyrus had guessed, Cyrus had known. Hugging Peter, her eyes filled
with tears, she reached out and groped for Cyrus’s hand and then with her other
hand she reached for Bishop’s, too....