Seconds later, whatever has blocked the door is being dragged away, making a long, earsplitting screech. At last, the door swings open. A fortyish man in gray coveralls is standing there, looking both wary and baffled at the sight of me.
“Thank you,” I blurt out, setting the rod down. I spot the table right behind him, which confirms that was the barricade.
“What happened?” he asks. “What are doing you in here?”
“I was looking around, and someone shut the door, then pushed the table in front. Who would have done that?”
He glances behind him at the table as if the answer is sitting on top of it.
“The workers, maybe,” he says, looking back at me. “To discourage people from sneaking in here.”
People like me, he probably means.
“But why not check first to make sure no one was here?”
He shrugs. “They must have thought it was empty.”
Maybe.
“I’m so sorry for any damage to the door,” I say, grabbing my phone and purse. “I’ll—I’ll speak to President Williams about having it repaired. Thank you again for finding me.”
“You’re okay?” he asks as I move past him to leave.
“Yes, okay.” But that’s not true at all.
I have no time now to go back to the inn and change. As I race toward Boyd Hall, I use a tissue from my coat pocket to wipe my face and then attack the dirt on my dress, which proves to be futile. When I finally reach my destination, I have a stitch in my side, my hip hurts even more, and my heels feel nearly raw. I enter the building and find myself in a large wood-paneled foyer, with the reception happening in a room just to my left. I steal a frantic glance at my phone: 7:14.
There’s a rolling clothes rack by the door, and a handful of people are already tugging their coats from hangers, preparing to leave. Deciding I don’t even have time to find a restroom, I approach the reception area. It’s a beautiful, high-ceilinged room, its walls hung with gilt-framed oil paintings. About thirty guests are still gathered inside, though the vibe is of a party that’s past its prime.
Almost instantly, I discover Logan standing in a cluster of people. Seconds later, he shifts position slightly, spots me, and stares across the room. There’s a look of bewilderment in his eyes, not an expression from his usual repertoire.
I slip out of my coat, drape it across my arm, and smooth my hair with my better hand. I step into the room and start toward Logan, but before I’ve gone far, someone is touching my shoulder. Turning, I see that it’s Alison Handler. She’s dressed in a flowy cream-colored skirt andpearl-buttoned cardigan of the same hue, almost like an image from one of her paintings.
“Bree, good evening,” she says. “And congratulations on the reception.”
“Thank you,” I say, half in a daze by now. “Thank you for coming tonight.”
“I looked for you earlier, but it was so crowded during the first hour, I didn’t see you, and now I’m off to dinner with a friend.”
She obviously assumes I’ve been here the whole time and simply opted for a slightly disheveled, sweat-drenched look for the evening.
“I’m sorry to have missed you yesterday,” she adds.
“That’s my fault for not contacting you first,” I fumble. “Your husband said you were out for the evening.”
“The shame is I was actually in my studio, but in the back room, reading on my daybed. I must not have heard you knock.”
There’s no way I’m going to admit I didn’t knock, that I was simply peering into her window like a Peeping Tom.
“Oh, too bad.”
“Why don’t you come by tomorrow,” she says, holding my gaze. “I’ll be there all morning for sure.”
Is there any point in returning there? Right now, I’m too discombobulated to decide.
“Thank you, but I probably won’t have the chance before I leave for Uruguay.”
“Well, just in case, here’s my phone number.” She quickly extracts the card from her purse and presses it into my hand. “You can text or call me.”
