Page 120 of Dying to Meet You
Caroline has a surprisingly firm handshake, complete with a jingling charm bracelet. When I glance down at it, I freeze. Because I’m pretty sure one of those charms is of Saint Raymond.
Hank and Caroline launch into a discussion about somebody’s new sailboat, while I sneak glances at Caroline’s wrist. She talks with her hands, so the bracelet is always in motion. But I’m sure I saw the familiar image of the saint pressed in sterling.
They move off before I’m ready. I take a deep gulp of wine and track her silver-blond bob across the room. Hank’s hand lands on the small of my back again, ready to steer me toward new conquests.
But I can’t stand here and smile for one more minute. “Forgive me,” I murmur, peeling away. He’ll probably assume that I needed the ladies’ room. I ditch my empty glass onto a tray and locate Caroline again. She and her husband are in line for the bar, so I beeline in that direction.
“Excuse me, Caroline?” I sidle next to her. “Can I ask you a question?”
Her eyes widen with curiosity. “Of course.” She tells her husband which beer she wants, and steps out of the line with me.
“It’s about your charm bracelet,” I say apologetically. “I’ve seen one of the charms before, and I wonder if you can tell me what it means.”
“Oh!” She lifts her wrist and spins the bracelet. “Of course! Which one? You know that’s the whole point of charm bracelets, right?” She chuckles. “Explaining their significance to whoever will listen.” She points at a charm shaped like a daisy, with a pearl in the middle. “My husband gave me this one after we named our daughter Daisy.”
“That’s beautiful. But it’s this one that caught my eye.” I lift Saint Raymond with a finger. “A friend of mine had the same one.”
“Oh!” Her finger traces the oval shape in a way that suggests a lifetime of familiarity. “That’s Saint Raymond, the patron saint of childbirth. I have it because I was born at the maternity home here in Portland. All the babies left with this charm.”
“Oh.”Oh God. “So it’s a...” I hesitate. “Souvenir isn’t the right word.”
“Talisman.” She smiles. “My mother always told me that it must be a very powerful luck charm, because she felt like the luckiest woman in the world when the lawyer called to tell her that I’d been born, and I was ready to come home.” She smiles, but her eyes look suddenly wet. “I lost my mother last year.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I say almost automatically. My mind is whirling. “That’s quite a story.Allthe babies got a charm?”
“That’s what she said. Although I met only one other person who had one. At a Christmas party once. She was just standing there by the punch bowl, and I gasped when I saw it on a chain around her neck. Is that how your friend wears theirs?”
“Yes,” I lie. “But he’s gone now, before I could ask him about it.”
“Oh wow.” She pats my hand, her bracelet jingling. “I’m sorry. I would have loved to meet him.”
***
“Hank, my man!” Someone steps behind my boss and slaps him on the back. A real slap. “Where you been? You missed my birthday.”
He looks familiar, but I’m not sure if it’s because I met him in high school or more recently.
“Deacon. Dude, I’m sorry.” When Hank grins, he looks sixteen again. We could be standing in the courtyard of Chatham Prep after school. “I’m sure I missed a good time.”
“Do a shot with me,” the guy says without even a glance in my direction. “Come on, buddy. You owe me.”
Hank has slightly better manners than his friend. “Deacon, I have to drive Rowan home later. Rowan, this is my irascible cousin, Deacon Wincott.”
“Who knew there were so many Wincotts?” I say, extending my hand to shake.
“Oh, you have no idea.” The guy laughs and shakes my hand without even making eye contact. “C’mon, call your driver, Hanky Panky. A couple of shots won’t kill you.”
Hanky Panky?God.
For a moment, I think Hank won’t go for it. But then he pulls out his phone and sends a text. “All right. Bring a shot for Rowan, too.”
“None for me,” I say quickly. “I have work in the morning.”
“He can drink yours, then,” Hank’s buffoon of a cousin says. “I already asked the bartender for a bottle of... oh, there he is.” Deacon waves to a black-vested bartender, who hurries over with a bottle of vodka and a bunch of shot glasses.
When I decline a shot for the second time, Hank plucks a glass of wine for me off the full tray of a passing caterer.
I was only going to have one glass tonight, but suddenly that doesn’t feel like enough, as Deacon Wincott launches into the story of a drunken night on Grandpa’s boat.
