I promised you a story. Gillian Banks stared at her tea cup and refused to let burning tears fall. Disappointment was one thing; giving way to it in public—no, her Boston pride wouldn’t let her do that. The trip to England had been a dismal letdown from the moment she introduced herself to the tour group, but she’d pinned all her hopes on today being different. No chilly cathedrals today. No echoing churches hailing back to the fourteenth century, with gloomy memorials underfoot to remind the visitor life is a fleeting, temporary thing. Today was to be a celebration, a joyous parade with flags and bands and brilliant uniforms. A lifelong Anglophile, for years Gill had dreamed of standing in Trafalgar Square. Today she’d expected to see the magnificent square as a backdrop when the Queen of England received a salute from her troops in honor of the royal birthday. Even the sudden icy downpour that left her new hat sodden hadn’t quelled her expectations. It took two meandering, peevish, chattering septuagenarians to do that.
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