He slipped into the rear seat and softly shut the door before they came into view. Peter caught the grim set of Beatrix’s mouth as she went by. Both women jumped into the front and as soon as the car flared to life, Beatrix backed out, turned around and accelerated down the long driveway as if she had no time to lose.
He waited for conversation—what they were going to do, what his bizarre day had been about—but they didn’t say a word for the short ride. That, in fact, was most suggestive of all. Hadn’t he told them to avoid talking about anything dangerous in a place that could so easily be bugged?
He couldn’t make out where they were when the car stopped, lying as he was on the floor, nothing but trees visible out his window. He waited until they both got out to sit up. The Beaux-Arts buildings of the women’s college rose above him, the sight squeezing at his lungs. What better place to start a women-only whisper campaign?
He had to stop this now. He barreled out, slamming the door, not caring whether they heard. They didn’t—they’d just stepped into the nearest building. By running full-out he caught up before they disappeared, and he was at the point of grabbing Beatrix’s hand when he heard “the League” and pulled back to listen to what they were saying.
“What did Rosemarie want us to talk to her about?” Beatrix asked.
“She gave me a list. A long one.”
“All march-related?”
“Every word.”
This was about the march Lydia Harper was organizing in Washington?
Peter continued following them, up a stairwell, down a hallway full of closed doors, but the certainty that he should be here, doing this, receded along with his anger and anxiety. He was crossing a line—spying on Beatrixagain. What if this was nothing but a misunderstanding?
Beatrix stopped at the door marked 216 and knocked. He stood two yards from her and Miss Knight, dithering. Perhaps he should walk away. Wait until he could ask her for the truth.
Go home.
The door opened. The young Asian woman on the other side broke into a grin at the sight of her visitors—the ones she could see.
“What a nice surprise! Come in,” she said.
And in that second of opportunity—that moment of truth—he discovered just how far his trust in Beatrix had fallen. Or, looked at in a different way, just how willing he was to betray her trust in him. He slipped in after her and Miss Knight, stepping into a corner of the room, already regretting his decision.
But the door was now closed. There would be no getting out until they left.
He listened to them discuss the necessary minutiae of planning a big event with simultaneous relief and misery. The two holes in Beatrix’s fraying scarf stared at him from the coat rack like accusing eyes.
It wasn’t simply what he was doing at this very moment. No, he’d also badgered her every night, and for what? The answer to his question was always no. No, she hadn’t told women the secret. No, she wasn’t doing what he feared.
She’d had an idea flame up in the midst of one stressful evening, and he hadn’t counted on her ability to think strategically about costs and benefits in the cold light of day.He’d left her no face-saving way to say she’d changed her mind.
After what must have been thirty minutes of writhing, his deliverance arrived.
“Where are your facilities, Dot?” Beatrix said.
“Yes,please,” Miss Knight said. “Too much discussion about water stations, not enough about latrines.”
Their host laughed. “Outside—down the hall. I’ll show you.”
He counted out twenty seconds after they left, opened the door a crack—enough to see the hallway was clear—and escaped. The mile-long walk back to his car offered plenty of time to think in excruciating detail about what he’d done.
When he finally got home, he looked into the brewing room again to see what she’d made that day. Next to the bottles lay a note, but not the be-back-soon message of earlier.
I’m sorry to keep you so busy—I needed you out of the house. Go to your bedroom and see why.
The swirl of conflicting emotions clarified themselves into guilt that pressed on him like a weight. She’d been up to something for him? He clumped up the steps, legs aching from the walk, and opened the door.
His breath caught.
A Christmas tree, fully decorated, filled a previously bare corner. Strands of white lights twinkled at him where wall met floor. One of Mayor Croft’s handmade wreaths hung on the inner side of the door.
Presents—at least three dozen—lay on the skirt under the tree. The names on the tags were a who’s who of townspeople. There was even a plate of gingerbread cookies from the Clarks, surely baked sometime in the last few days with what little strength Mrs. Clark had left.
