“See you tomorrow night, then,” Handler says. “Shall I mention to Alison that you dropped by?”
Maybe he thinks I don’t want her to know I was peeking in her windows, and that I’d be grateful if he kept it between us.
“Yes, please. Tell her I’m sorry I missed her, but it’s my fault entirely.”
As I make my way up the path, I feel his eyes on my back. I turn left at the sidewalk, then walk rapidly—almost jogging, really—until I’m back at the corner of Birch and Oak Street, the spot where the taxi left me. Since Craig mentioned he was calling it quits for the night, I order an Uber and sigh gratefully when I see the wait will be only five minutes.
So, what’s Handler doing now?I wonder, still winded. Flicking on the house lights and deciding to call Alison to see if what I told him was true? She’ll probably say shehadextended a welcome for me to visit but that I’d shown little interest, and we’d certainly never discussed a possible time. She might even wonder if I’m a little batty.
I’m not even sure myself why I felt the need to peer through those windows. Alison intrigues me, but it’s Handler my mind keeps landing on. Though I still don’t have any real sense of him, there’s one thing Idoknow: I make him uncomfortable. I felt it in his office, I felt it at dinner, and I certainly felt it tonight.
And then there’s the fact that he still didn’t come clean about the archive. Even if Mel hadn’t uploaded material there, it seems Handler should have at least mentioned it to me. I need to check whether it’s still in existence without him knowing what I’m up to.
I also need to learn more abouthim, particularly his reputation when it comes to female students. Maya certainly wouldn’t be forthcoming, and it’s hardly a question for Chip. But thereissomeone who might be able to shed more light.
When I enter the inn a short time later, the lobby is empty except for Shelly, puttering silently behind the front desk. There’s a murmur of male voices from the parlor, though—and one of them is Logan’s. Curious, I peer inside.
It’s all cozy in there right now. Only the table lamps are burning, creating soft puddles of light around the room, and the gas fireplace is on. Logan’s sitting in a wingback chair facing the door, and he straightens as he sees me, then lifts his chin, a signal of some kind, though I’m not sure what it means.
And then I get it—because of the long legs extending from the chair across from him. They must belong to Jack Lawler. Logan had said they were meeting for a drink, but I had no idea that would happen here.
“Oh, Bree, come in,” he calls out. “I’m sorry not to phone you back, but now you’ll see why.”
I proceed into the parlor.
“You remember Jack, don’t you?” Logan says next, and a second later my daughter’s ex has twisted around so he’s facing in my direction.
“Ms. Winter, so nice to see you again,” Jack says, starting to stand.
“Please don’t get up,” I tell him.
“I was just about to anyway.” He rises fully, dressed in a tight-fitting black V-neck sweater, slim black jeans, and spiffy black-and-gray sneakers. He takes a couple of steps in my direction and shakes my hand. “I’m due to meet a friend for dinner.”
Up close, I see that he’s even more attractive than he was in college. His face—clean-shaven now—has filled out in a good way, softeningthe lines a little, and the short haircut draws attention to his features instead of distracting from them the way the long tousles once did. As I take him in, I can’t help but think of poor Mel, forever frozen as a college junior. Occasionally, I’ve dared to wonder what she would look like as an almost-thirty-year old, but mostly I spare myself the anguish of going there.
“A friend from Carter?” I ask.
I couldn’t care less who it is, but I’m stealing time. Logan will fill me in about Jack later, but I need to take a measure of him myself before he splits.
“Yeah, a guy who decided to stay in the area,” he says with another smile. “I haven’t seen him in ages, so it will be good to catch up.”
“And how nice of you to come to the reception.”
“It’s my pleasure, actually,” Jack says. “I was so impressed when I heard about the scholarships and the newMuseoffice. I figured this was a way for me to pay tribute to Mel. I still think about her a lot.”
He always had presence, but he’s got poise now, too. Gone, I notice, are the self-soothing gestures I remember so vividly from when we had coffee with Mel and him—he would frequently tug at his chin or rake his fingers through his hair.
It unnerved me a little, especially the way it contrasted with the confident, unentangled way he performed his roles onstage.
“I appreciate that,” I tell him. “It helps to know people still think of Mel.”
“Of course,” he says, and runs a hand along the side of his head. So notcompletelyunentangled now.
“Well, I should let you get to your dinner. Enjoy your evening.”
“Thanks. And see you both tomorrow night.”
Logan’s risen by now as well, and Jack offers him a quick handshake goodbye, thanks him for the drink, and then strides into the lobby, leaving a trail of musky cologne. For a half minute Logan and I stand nearly motionless until we hear the click of the front door over the insistent hum from the fireplace.
