Good Deed Bad Deed, Marcia Morgan [summer beach reads TXT] 📗

and it was slow going across town, although it was good sightseeing for Ana. Reaching the M40 from Regent Street required passing through a tollbooth, around Trafalgar Square and then skirting Piccadilly Circus, where five main London roads converge. Ben pointed out the Shaftesbury Memorial Fountain and the only tall building left with a large neon display. After more signs and more streets, London began to thin out and they finally eased onto their route toward the countryside.

Modern buildings gave way to green fields and pockets of forest, all sliced clean through by divided highway. In spite of the slight variations in the road’s direction, they were basically traveling due northwest. The sun was settling toward the horizon and glared through the windshield, making the view ahead indistinct. Gazing out the side window Ana could see clusters of rooftops nestled here and there among the rolling hills. She imagined each village to be like the charming backdrops created by Agatha Christie for her novels of murder and mayhem.

Ben angled off onto the M25 toward Oxford, then junction eight toward Cheltenham. Once settled on his route, he reached forward to turn on the CD player. His hands were settled back on the wheel before the soft and mournful sounds of a ballad by Johnny Cash filled the void. Ana listened quietly and after a moment or so she turned her body slightly to face him.

“Seriously? Country music? You’re just one surprise after another.”

“Don’t you like classic country?” he asked. “Would either James Taylor or the MJQ be more to your liking?”

“No, it’s not that, although the MJQ is definitely a favorite of mine. It’s just not what I expected from a Brit with a literary education.”

Conversation was suspended while they listened to lyrics of unrequited love and heartbreak. Ana had known another man who liked country music, but he was from the southern U.S. and it was to be expected. Her philosophy about men who like country lyrics was formed as a result of her experience with him. She concluded that some are either incapable of expressing deep feelings, or uncomfortable sharing emotion. They can find emotional solace in the lyrics, so often about lost love. Privately, she admitted that such an opinion was a rather harsh analysis, when based on only one romantic interlude. Yet she still fancied herself an armchair psychologist. It could come in handy for a journalist.

Ben broke the conversational silence. “I can’t remember whether I told you this, but I was an ‘American’ until I was almost thirteen. Actually, I am an American. I was born in the U.S. … San Francisco. Maybe I’m one of those people they call an ‘ex-pat.”

“No, I don’t think so, because you have two passports. Even though you’ve been here since you were just thirteen, you haven’t picked up much UK English accent. You sound about sixty percent American, forty percent English—a nice mix.”

“Yeah … that’s been brought to my attention more than once. My mother sounds very public school, as she should, since her education was tops.” Ben smiled, then added, “I think my ‘Americanization’ has always disappointed her a bit.”

“I guess you must actually feel more English though, since your parents both come from the UK.”

Ben turned down the sound and continued, “While I was attending university here in England I did a year of study abroad. I was born in San Francisco, and attended school there, so I decided to go back. Those were good memories, my childhood, except that my father was gone a lot with work.”

“SFSU or USF?”

“San Francisco State University. At that time their Humanities department was highly rated. So with my English major, it was a perfect choice.”

“So I guess it’s like they say … the guy’s a little bit country, a little bit rock and roll.”

“Guess so– but not so much the rock and roll. I generally like all music, some kinds more than others… except rap and hip hop.”

Ana put her purse down by her feet, settled into her seat, and said, “That’s a relief. I’d hate to be trapped in the car with either of those.” She turned to him, conjuring up something else meant to impress, and said, “I remember being told by some guy about Kris Kristofferson doing country lyrics … said he was quite a poet. Or maybe the poetry was set to music. I don’t remember exactly what he said”

Ben straightened up in his seat, stiffened his arms and tightened his grip on the wheel. Ignoring her reference to poetic country lyrics, he asked, “Just a guy, or a boyfriend?”

Ben’s question was immediate, and she wondered why his tone had been curt and the question rather personal. But she had to admit to liking his interest, given that it could be interpreted as a bit of jealousy. “Just a guy at some party. Don’t even know why I remembered.” Her choice of a white lie was meant to diffuse any further questions about her past. She knew it didn’t matter because she never wanted to see Luke again.

“Well, you’re right about Kristofferson,” Ben said, his voice subdued yet more relaxed.

He declined to comment further, and they settled into a slightly tense lapse in conversation during which Ben turned up the volume. Ana noticed that he was clenching his jaw and wondered if his shoulder was starting to hurt. Half way through an old standard by Patsy Kline, he lowered the sound again and asked, “Is that your phone I hear?” He took another opportunity to tease her and said, “Who has a song from The Wizard of Oz for a ringtone. Ding-Dong the Witch is Dead? Really?”

“That’s no sillier than others I’ve heard. Besides, it’s my favorite movie,” she added, defending her choice as she fished through her purse, digging deep before bringing the sound to the surface. “It’s my boss. Uh oh.” Ben turned the music off and waited to see if she would answer. “He probably wants to know why I’ve gone ‘off the