“I didn’t realize you were meeting him here,” I say, not accusing, just curious.
“It was a last-minute decision. I had a hunch it might give me a leg up to do it on my turf, instead of in some bar.”
“And?”
“There’s some stuff worth sharing, but, God”—he shoots a hand from the sleeve of his zippered cardigan and glances quickly at his watch—“I’m starving. Have you had dinner yet?”
“No.”
“Want to grab a bite somewhere? There’s a little Italian restaurant I discovered about twelve, fifteen, minutes from here. The food’s nice.”
I hesitate. Sitting at the table with him in Uruguay had been both awkward and sad, and I’m not sure I want to repeat it. But I’m hungry myself, and the brief conversation with Jack has only added to how churned up I feel tonight. Maybe a glass of wine and some comfort food will help, even if I’m eating across from Logan.
“If you prefer, I can order something for you while I’m there and drop it off later,” he says, clearly sensing my ambivalence.
“No, I’d like to go. Can you give me a few minutes, though? I want to run upstairs.”
“Sure thing.”
As soon as I’m in my room, I follow the plan I made on the street corner, placing a second call to Harry Kronish.
“Hey,” he says in lieu of hello. “What’s up?”
“Sorry to trouble you again, Harry. But I had one more question.”
“No problem.”
“You said you thought Mel might have been seeing someone new but she never volunteered a name. Any idea at all who it could have been?”
“None whatsoever. Like I told you, there seemed to be something a little clandestine about the whole thing.”
“Clandestine?” I feel goose bumps race along my arms. “I don’t recall you using that word before.”
“I think I said she seemed like the cat that ate the canary, though clandestine works, too, I suppose. It’s so long ago now, but I remember sensing she wanted to keep it secret, even from me for the time being.”
Mel had been secretive with Logan and me since she was thirteen, but in time I learned she could be that way even with her friends. I’ve never forgotten a comment made by her pal Sara at the high school graduation party we threw for Mel in our loft. I asked her what she’d miss the most about the city once she left for college, and after she’d listed a few things, I inquired—always greedy for even a morsel about my daughter—what she thought Melanie would miss. Sara shrugged and said, “Gosh, I’m not sure. You know, Mel. She’s always kind of a mystery.”
I take a breath. “Could the guy have been a professor?”
“Aprofessor? Uh, gee, it’s possible, I guess. It wouldn’t have been the smartest thing, but she seemed kind of restless after Jack, like she wanted to, you know, shake things up. She even wondered one night if she should have gone to a bigger college.”
Something else I didn’t know about my daughter.
I exhale slowly, thinking. I hate being a flamethrower, but if I want to get anywhere, I’m going to have to light a match.
“Do you remember Jeffrey Handler from your time at Carter?” I ask.
“Of course—I had the guy for a couple of classes. Wait, are you thinking it might have beenhim?”
“I’m just posing the question for now. Did she ever talk about him?”
“Well, I know she loved the classes she took with him, but she never hinted at anything more than that, at least to me.”
“Just one more question, and I promise to let you go, Harry,” I say. “Were there ever any rumors about Handler sleeping with students?”
“Students, no, not from what I know.”
“What do you mean by ‘students, no’?”
