Page 15 of Dying to Meet You
I must doze off, because suddenly there’s a jingle and the slam of a door and a woof.
“Mom?”
I open my eyes and find Natalie standing over me. “Why is Lickie dragging her leash around the house?”
“Oh.” I sit up suddenly and reach for the dog, who’s sniffing my hands. “Sorry.”
“Mama?” Her voice is high and strained. She hasn’t called meMamain a hundred years. “Are you okay? What’s that on your shoes?”
I swallow. “You know Tim?”
“Thatguy?”
“He’s dead.”
Natalie gasps. “Omigod. How didthathappen?”
“I wish I knew.”
***
My own child puts me to bed. That’s never happened before. As she pulls up the quilt, I make her promise to double-check the locks before she goes to bed.
“I will, Mama,” she says quietly. “Sleep tight.”
I lie awake for hours. I’m exhausted, but my brain won’t let me sleep. I keep thinking about the day I met Tim in the coffee shop on Congress Street.
“Excuse me. Are you Rowan Gallagher?” he asked. He gave me an easygoing smile that I’d soon consider to be one of his best features.
At the time I’d been startled. Handsome men don’t usually stop me in coffee shops. “Yes? That’s me.”
After telling me his name, he held out a hand to shake. “I recognize you from that article in thePress. Interesting stuff. You have a cool job.”
“Well, sometimes.” My laugh was probably awkward. “The article covered one of the more exciting days.”
He was referring to a find I’d made at the mansion—a cache of historic Wincott family documents. There was a valuable Bible along with a few other items in a box under some rotting floorboards.
It wasn’t that big a deal, but it did make me feel like Nancy Drew.
Afterward, Hank Wincott had called a reporter to suggest that it would make a good story. Up to that point, all the news about the mansion had been negative. Neighbors didn’t like the construction noise or our plan for a new parking lot.
The reporter liked the story idea, and I ended up smiling from the Local News section, holding the Wincott Bible. I thought it was silly.
But Tim asked interested questions, making me feel fascinating. “Sit with me?” he’d said, pulling out a chair as if my agreement was a foregone conclusion.
And I guess it was. I was flattered by his attention. Starved for it, really.
He was smooth, but in a comfortable way. Confident, but not cocky. I liked his smile. But more than that, I liked how carefully he listened when I spoke. He wanted to hear all about my work on the mansion. “It’s like a Victorian ghost story,” he’d said. “Finding ancient documents under the floorboards.”
“They’d only been there since the eighties. But, sure, let’s go with your version.”
He’d laughed, and I’d admired the way his eyes crinkled warmly at the corners.
We talked for two hours. I lost track of time and was late for a Zoom call with our roofer. Beatrice was about ready to start phoning area hospitals asking if they had any unidentified accident victims.
“You never disappear like that. Is he hot? Is he your type?”
“He’s cute,” I’d said, skirting the truth. “Snappy dresser. Kind of preppy.”
