Page 5 of Dying to Meet You
She told me that she’s gunning for the directorship of the new Maritime Center—a major promotion—but I worry she’s in for a rude awakening. Whenever Hank and I discuss that office upstairs, Hank always refers to the director ashim. My hunch is that Hank pictures someone like himself for the directorship—a prominent Mainer with deep ties to the country club set.
But it’s really none of my business.
“I’m going to need a drink after work,” Beatrice says now. “Join me? For full disclosure, though, your calendar saysbook club.”
“Oh right,” I murmur. “That’s tonight.”
She gives me a plaintive look. “You suffered through that book, so you might as well enjoy the white wine and gossip. Don’t sit home alone and mope about your ex.”
“I’m going. Promise. And I don’t mope. Iseethe.”
Beatrice has a beautiful laugh, like bells ringing. “Hey, I appreciate the difference. That guy was too old for you anyway. He was a bore.”
Beatrice only met him once, and the age thing isn’t really true. Tim is forty-five, but I’m almost forty myself. Anyway, I’m not ready to be rational about Tim. It’s only been four days since he ended things. “You’re not helping. Who wants to be dumped by a bore?”
She spins her chair around in a complete rotation. “I’m just saying, you can do better.”
Can I, though?Tim’s quiet personality was a feature, not a bug. He’s a grownup, with a real job and good habits. We ate out together. We went running together. And when he accidentally left something in my bathroom, it was a pair of cuff links, not a bong, like my ex used to leave lying around.
My other ex, that is.
I thought dating a wearer of cuff links was a safe choice. But it wasn’t. Monday night he dumped me via a callous text message, and by Tuesday night he’d started dating someone else.
Not that I’m supposed to know that.
“What are you up to tonight?” I ask Beatrice, changing the topic.
“A cocktail mixer for the symphony orchestra.” She shrugs one tanned shoulder. “You’re always welcome to join me.”
“Sounds fun, but I’ve got book club.” I’m happy to have the excuse. I love Beatrice dearly, but she and I don’t have the same ideas about fun. She favors benefits and yacht parties. Wine tastings. Booze-soaked outings with Portland’s most well-heeled people.
Beatrice is fantastic at networking, because she actually enjoys it. “That’s the only way a scholarship kid can climb the ladder,” she said once.
I’m less enthusiastic, especially after a long day. The one time I went out to a party with her, she declared me “the worst wingwoman ever” after I turned down a guy who wanted to buy me a drink. Never mind that he had a tan line on his left ring finger.
I don’t care how successful he is, or how slick—I am not flirting with a married man. I barely remember how to flirt with a single one. And after my latest romantic disaster, I don’t even mind very much.
“You have fun,” I tell her. “I’ll be discussing a celebrity memoir with my high school friends.”
“You animal,” she says with a laugh. Then she rises from her chair. “I have to leave for my meeting with the publicist. See you tomorrow?”
“The publicist? Is there a problem?” We’ve had complaints from the neighbors. They objected to the noise during our demolition phase, and they’re worried about the impact of a museum—no matter how small—in the midst of the quiet residential neighborhood.
She shakes her head. “No problems. We’re just discussing future messaging for the Maritime Center.”
“Right. Got it.”
We’re still a year out from the center’s first public programming. ButBeatrice is the kind of person who works ahead. Maybe she’s grabbing the reins of the director’s job before they can find someone else.
Not a bad strategy, really.
“Say hi to Natalie for me,” she says. “Tell her I have a new nail color set aside for her. It was too pink for me.”
“She’ll be thrilled.” My sixteen-year-old daughter loves Beatrice. They have the same expensive taste in beauty products, and they go to the same yoga class on Saturdays.
After Beatrice leaves, I do a lap of the second floor, shutting off the lights. Then, downstairs, I check the lock on the back door.
That done, I cross the atrium with hurried steps. It’s my dirty little secret that I don’t like to be alone in the mansion. The shadows are heavy and the space seems to echo.
