Page 79 of Dying to Meet You
“I’m not sure,” she says slowly. “The family name means a lot to him.He won’t be too thrilled if your private drama brought a murder to his doorstep.”
“Mydrama? All I did was date a guy who asked me out in a coffee shop.”
Beatrice winces. “I know, I’m sorry. That came out wrong. But you asked me what Hank would think.”
I guess I did. “So you’re saying Hank might need someone to blame, and I could be the convenient target.”
“For a minute, anyway,” she says. “But he’ll get over it. He chose you for this job for a reason. Because you’re one of them. Part of the inner circle.”
“One of... Sorry?”
“The Chatham Prep crew. And then an Ivy League degree. From an old Portland family. The Wincotts care about two things—pedigree and loyalty, in that order.”
I blink. “That’s a pretty generous interpretation of my place in the world.”
She gives me a funny little smile. “When your résumé came in, I put it right on top of the pile. Because I know how Hank works. It worked out fine. But I’m going to have to campaign twice as hard to get the director’s job here.” She pats the desk. “It will be hard enough to get them to accept a woman in the role. And yet if my degree said Princeton on it, or if my last name was Wincott, it would be an easier sell.”
I don’t even know what to say to that, because she probably has a point.
“So don’t let him rattle you,” she says. “If Hank has another tantrum, you’ll remind him that nothing on the news is your fault. And that if he wants his mansion finished on schedule, he should get over himself.”
“Okay,” I agree. As if I’d ever speak to Hank that way.
She smiles suddenly. “I can tell you don’t believe me, and I love you for it. But thiswillblow over.”
“Sure hope so.”
She picks up her purse to head to her next meeting. And on her way out, she gives me a squeeze on the shoulder. “Hey—make sure Natalie comes to yoga tomorrow? I’ll buy the poor kid a donut after class.”
This is why Beatrice and Natalie are friends. They can both eat donuts and still wear spandex. “I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.”
***
By noon, I’m hurrying to Hank’s office, a little sweaty, the walk longer than I’d bargained for. At a traffic light, I pull out my phone to see how late I’m going to be.
I find a text from Beatrice.
Beatrice: Call me. Change of plans.
I call immediately. “What’s happened?”
“Hank took a meeting somewhere else, last minute. He’s not in his office. He wanted me to tell you that he’ll have to reschedule for next week.”
My heart plummets. “Did he say why?”
Her brief silence makes me uncomfortable. “He didn’t. But he sounded like he was in a mood.”
The light changes, and I cross the street on autopilot, the phone still pressed to my ear. “Any reason he didn’t call me directly?”
Another beat of silence. “I really couldn’t say.”
Can’t or won’t?Pressing Beatrice for details won’t solve anything, and this isn’t her fault, so I say, “Okay, thank you for telling me.”
“Don’t panic, Rowan. This could be unrelated to the arrest.”
And yet I don’t think it is. “I’m going to drop off my budget at his office. And then maybe get some lunch. See you later?”
We hang up, and I find myself in front of another building designed by Amos Wincott. Old copper letters spellingWINCOTTare arranged in the pediment at the roofline.
