Birds Of A Feather

By Deborah Bainbridge

“Champagne.” The steward places my order on the tray table. “Is there anything else I can get you before takeoff, Miss Windthorn?”

“Chocolate.” I give him a winning, close-lipped smile.

“Of course, Miss Windthorn.”

Lifting my flute high, I whisper toward the window, “Harrison, may you rot.”

I’m determined to enjoy every possible convenience entitled to me in first class, right down to the entertainment and gourmet food. Harrison’s betrayal will come at a cost, starting with this fully reclining flat-bed seat.

Earlier this morning, I slunk along the paths of Central Park to surprise him with his favorite pastry and coffee, to celebrate his run and to spoil his diet. As I rounded the bend near Cherry Hill Fountain, on the exact spot where we’d discussed getting married one day, he stood with another woman. He hadn’t actually proposed to me yet, but that was completely beside the point.

Harrison helped that stunning stranger with her coat, his fingers gently guiding blonde locks from beneath its stiff collar, his hand lingering on her shoulder far longer than was necessary. Ever the gentleman I admired.

I clutched my waist, feeling an invisible blow to the gut.

Squaring my shoulders, I dropped the scoundrel’s breakfast into a trash can and grabbed a taxi. I directed the driver to Harrison’s penthouse, promising a hefty tip in exchange for haste.

The bellman of The Grande knew me by name and escorted me directly to his suite. As a trust fund baby, Harrison lived well but enjoyed having cash on hand. He’d trusted me with the safe combination a few months ago. Now it seemed only fair to take the eight thousand dollars from inside—after all, I’d trusted him to be faithful. I pilfered only one other item—a small comb of great sentimental value to us both. Of course, nabbing it had been exhilarating, but I only truly kept it because of him. He’d apparently moved on, so he wouldn’t miss it. I hid the comb in the center of a tight, twisted bun fastened above my neck.

After that, I rushed home for my passport and overnight bag then hightailed it to the airport. British Air had two posh seats remaining in first class, and I obviously deserved one of them.

Now, too bitter to cry, I settle on unwrapping and eating the chocolate bars deposited by the steward and curling up with a soft blanket and pillow on the fully reclined seat.

Two days later, the London Waterloo train sways along the tracks. As the wheels hum and thump along the rails, images blur past the windows, and I drift back a year to the day I first met Harrison.

***

Hampton Court Palace was filled with tour groups that day, which meant loads of distractions. A tiny hair comb with five small prongs topped with a triangular piece of ornately carved ivory caught my eye in the queen’s chambers. Apparently it had belonged to Jane Seymour, a favored wife of Henry VIII. She certainly had no more need of it. I remember laughing—with such lax security, they may as well have installed a revolving door. I only needed five seconds to memorize the cameras’ patterns.

Just as I hopped the velvet rope, a loud crash reverberated through the hallway. I snatched the comb, then pressed my body against the wall out of the camera’s eye. A security guard I’d failed to notice ran to help a young man who’d fallen. The man’s deep brown eyes met mine, his dastardly half-smirk stopping me in my tracks. Only the worst possible time to go weak in the knees. His diversion, however, was a perfect window for my escape.

I dumped my tan sunglasses and dirty blonde wig into a trash bin five blocks away from the palace and loosed my brown hair. Slipping into a pub restroom, I ditched my outer black skirt and sweater, revealing the green dress hidden beneath. I then removed and flushed a set of brown contacts, unveiling my mismatched blue and green eyes—my transformation to my normal self, complete. No one would recognize me. Just outside the pub, however, Tall, Dark, and Handsome leaned against a black sedan.

“That was impressive,” he said. “Hasn’t anyone told you stealing is wrong?”

“You followed me?” I tried not to seem shaken, but my treacherous knees betrayed me.

His eyes bored into mine. “Absolutely! You’re the most exciting person I’ve met in years. I think I’d follow you anywhere. We seem to be two birds of a feather.” His brown eyes twinkled.

***

The train brakes squeal, chasing away my memories. I exit the train and take the short walk to Hampton Court Palace. I don’t buy a ticket. I just stand, staring at the gorgeous architecture, contemplating the hidden comb. Jane Seymour can have it back.

“I thought I’d find you here.” Harrison sidles up to me, his elbow grazing mine. “What spooked you?”

I hang my head. “It’s just been a dream, you and I. It was only a matter of time before you left. No honor among thieves after all.”

Harrison grabs my shoulders and turns me to face him. His brow crinkles. “What do you mean?”

I recount the scene from Central Park: the stunning blonde, the coat, and how all I wanted to do afterward was return the comb and rid myself of the link binding us since the day we met.

He takes my hands gently in his. “You are remarkable. For a woman like you, a marriage proposal needs to be something truly unique. She’s a wedding planner who relishes being fawned over.”

Heat rises in my cheeks. “I suppose I’ll keep this then.” My hand trembles a little as I reach to touch the comb.

“We’re two birds of a feather, after all.” He leans down and kisses me. “And birds of a feather—”

“Flock together.”

“Besides, that blonde could never plan something this perfect.” He kneels down onto one knee.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Deborah Bainbridge is a Christian, wife, and mother who enjoys running, traveling the world, writing short stories, and cookies. Her genres of choice include mystery and speculative fiction. Throughout her life, she has been inspired by J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, J.K. Rowling, and Suzanne Collins. She is thankful to her friends and family for their encouragement and to her husband for his unwavering support.

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