At the Courthouse
Flicka von Hannover
I wanted to know.
No, I wanted to hear it from him.
I already knew.
Flicka wished that she had a nice pantsuit to wear to her divorce, but all their money had gone toward court filing fees. She wore the trousers and blouse she had bought that first afternoon in Paris, hoping it would be good luck.
Also for luck, she pinnedthe alpine mountaineering brooch that Dieter had given her for Christmas so long ago to her bra strap by her heart. The gold wires scratched a little, but she had been wearing it every day just in case she needed to flee with nothing but the clothes on her back. It still meant everything to her. In their townhouse, the desert sunlight had glinted on the gold and diamonds and on the little black ribbonin the center.
Her lawyer had told her not to worry about billing his time, thank goodness. She suspected Wulf had a hand with this, or else Joachim knew her trust funds were good for any amount he wanted to bill, eventually.
They waited around the corner from the courthouse, walking in the cool November weather down the sidewalk. The plan was to enter the courthouse through a side door thatDieter had reconnoitered a few days before.
They were several hours early. Normally, operational security would dictate that they should sweep in at the last minute, minimizing their time at the vulnerable point.
Thus, if that’s what was expected, they would do the opposite.
Dieter had groused earlier that Quentin Sault’s Secret Service surely wouldn’t surveil the whole area for hours aheadof time because they were too damn lazy. Flicka suspected Dieter was perfectly correct.
So, just after the courthouse opened, they sneaked into the building through a side door and cleared the small security checkpoint set up there. A small anteroom off the second-floor side corridor seemed like a good place to wait.
Hidden in there, they talked, first holding hands, then with Dieter’s armsaround her.
When the first bits of stupid tremors started, she breathed in the cinnamon scent of his cologne and gave up the fear. She was his, now. The fear didn’t belong to her anymore.
She settled into Dieter’s strong arms.
The clock ticked around to the time when they needed to run the gantlet to the assigned courtroom.
The last few days, Flicka had been trying to enjoy every minute.
She spent time talking with Scotta, Prissy, and the other girls at work while she eyed the empty bar stool where Bastien used to sit. She kind of missed him. He’d been a friend, but he had never come back after seeing her real name.
She spent time playing with Alina, teaching her shape names with a wooden puzzle, and just snuggling and watching PBS while they ate goldfish crackers.
And she spenttime with Dieter, of course. She’d spent every moment she could in his arms, holding him and being held, breathing him in, and stroking the pale scars that quilted his tanned skin.
The small room was quiet around them. The old-fashioned wooden paneling on the walls probably insulated any sound that might have leaked from the rest of the courthouse.
They sat on a wooden bench. She rested againsthis broad chest with her back toward him. He held her from behind with his chin resting on the top of her head.
Flicka drank in the quiet, trying to remember every precious second, just in case.
Still drifting in the peaceful silence, she asked, “Is your real name Raphael?”
Behind her, his chest paused breathing.
She wasn’t going to take it back. If someone grabbed her this day, if she wasspirited away, she wanted to know.
