Free La Fleur Rouge The Red Flower by Ruthe Ogilvie

have a limousine waiting outside,” he said. “The reservation is for eight o’clock, so we should be right on time.” He smiled and offered an arm to each of them as they exited the hotel.
    They arrived at the building where the restaurant was located and went up to the penthouse. As they entered, the lights of Paris were just coming on. The beauty of the night was breathtaking! They were led to a table that looked out on the whole city. Boats that looked like giant canoes with canape covers moved slowly along the Seine, and passengers seated inside peered out of the picture windows, enjoying the cruise. It looked like a magic fairyland with the river sparkling in the moonlight and the lights of Paris twinkling up at them.
    “No wonder they call this the City of Lights!” Hildy exclaimed. “Even New York doesn’t look quite like this!” She felt as though she was embarking on a brand new adventure, with all her worries left behind in Los Angeles. Then she shuddered at the thought of what she must tell Peter. She was so preoccupied, she didn’t hear him speak to her. She came to when the waiter placed a napkin on her lap.
    “Where were you?” Peter asked, concerned. “You look a million miles away.”
    No, she thought, not a million. Just back in Boston. She felt as though a cold wind passed over her, and she shivered.
    “Are you cold?” he asked. “I’ll have someone turn down the air conditioner.”
    “Oh, no,” she answered, and managed a weak laugh as she reached for the menu. “I’m fine. What is everyone having?”
    “First of all,” Peter replied, “I’m going to order the best champagne they have. This calls for a celebration! We’re about to start work on a wonderful, new film which I know is going to win some awards.”
    Jenny’s eyes widened in excitement. “Hildy, did you hear that? I knew your talent couldn’t be hidden forever!”
    Peter looked pleased. “I guess I’m the first one to see your writing. I feel honored. I’ve discovered a new talent.”
    Hildy lowered her eyes. Is now the time? It seemed like a perfect lead-in. She hesitated for only a moment. “Peter, there’s something I have to tell you. You may not want to work with me once you hear what I have to say.”
    “Not work with you?” Peter was stunned. “Why not? You’ve written a superb piece of musical script! I’ve given this a lot of thought, and I can’t imagine anything that would change my mind! What in the world - - ?”
    Now that Hildy had started to tell him, she knew she had to finish. Why prolong the agony? She plunged in. “I’m sure the bomb on our plane was intended for me. There’s someone who wants me dead.”
    Peter stared at her in frank amazement. “What?!”
    “It’s a long story,” she told him. She knew if she backed down now, she might not find the courage later. She took a sip of the champagne, hesitated, then continued. “Peter, someone I knew back in Boston stole my first musical and put his name on it. I have only a common-law copyright proving that I wrote it. But he knows that as soon as I have enough money, I’m going to use it to fight him in court.”
    Peter looked at her intently. “Was it ever used? I mean, was it ever produced?”
    “Oh, yes,” Hildy assured him in a bitter tone, “it certainly was! I’m sure you’ve heard of ‘The Pepper Pot,’ and you know what a big hit it was.”
    Peter’s mouth fell open. “’The Pepper Pot’?!” He studied her for a moment, then laughed. “Oh, you’re joking! That was written by Gregory Wilcox.”
    “No,” Hildy replied. “It was written by me six months before I ever met him, only I called it ‘The Ginger Jar.’ A month after we met we became engaged, and he stole it from me one night when he was in my apartment. He changed the name to ‘The Pepper Pot’ and said he wrote it, but the music, lyrics, and plot are all mine.” She struggled to control her voice as she explained in detail about her