Page 59 of Dying to Meet You
Today, I trudge alone into the atrium, listening for signs of life in the mansion. Beatrice has a meeting somewhere off-site, but nobody else seems to be around, either. I don’t hear the conservators’ music playing upstairs. The quiet is so deep it presses down on my eardrums.
My heart thumps as I slip past the staircase, heading for the library. I practically jump out of my skin when I hear a noise. Sweat prickles my back as I peer around the doorjamb. There’s nobody in the library. Icreep forward, changing the angle of my body to gain a narrow view of the inner office.
Hank Wincott sits there, his foot propped up on a folding chair as he scrolls through his phone.
“Morning,” I practically gasp. “Didn’t see your car outside.”
He glances over in my direction, then does a double take. “Morning. Did I startle you? I’m sorry.” He makes a sympathetic grimace. “I walked here, which I now regret, because the rain has picked up, yeah?” He rises to peer through the windows. “It’s coming down in sheets.”
I walk slowly toward my desk, taking a moment to pull oxygen into my lungs, fighting off my irritation. He owns the damn house. He can come and go as he pleases. Still, I’m not used to sharing the space with him.
Besides, I probably look damp and frizzy, while Hank looks like he just stepped out ofGQ. Today he’s wearing a charcoal suit and a crisp blue shirt.
“Did I forget a meeting?” I ask, setting down my laptop bag.
“No.” He gives me a patient smile. “I just wanted a word with you.” He takes his seat again in one of our visitor’s chairs. “First of all, I should have come by earlier to say that I’m sorry for your loss.”
Oh. I drop into my chair. “Thank you. I appreciate that. Tim and I weren’t close when he died, but it’s still been a shock.”
He turns appraising blue eyes on me. “Had you known him long?”
I pause for a second before answering. The question might be totally innocent, but after last night’s ambush by the journalist, I don’t trust it. “I only met him this spring. But the violence of his death is still a shock.”
“Of course it is,” he says easily. “And the police haven’t made any arrests.” He glances around the office. “Must be nerve-racking to show up here every day.”
“I’ve had better weeks,” I say gamely.
He drums his fingers on the surface of my desk. “Look, I have a favor to ask. But you should feel no pressure.”
That sounds ominous, and a tingle climbs up my spine. “All right. I’m listening.”
He plucks a Blackwing pencil from my desk, balancing it between hisfingers. Then he flicks his gaze in my direction. “Next Tuesday is the Portland Historical Commission’s annual fundraising dinner.”
“Mmm-hmm?” I don’t know where he’s going with this.
It takes a second for him to continue, because his phone chimes loudly with a text.
I expect him to read it, as he always does when we’re in the middle of a conversation. Instead, he says, “Rowan, I was hoping you’d accompany me for the evening.”
“To the dinner?” I ask stupidly. I never was one of the cool kids in high school, and I’m a little confused. Did Hank Wincott justask me out?
“As my date for the evening,” he says with a smile so quick that I might have dreamt it. “And also, as the best person to answer what are sure to be a lot of pesky questions about what we’re doing to the mansion and to the neighborhood. A lot of the people from the Landmarks Review Board will be at this dinner.”
“Oh! Of course!” I say a little too brightly. “You’re right—it’s a great opportunity to talk up the project. Excellent idea.” I’m babbling now, but I’m just so relieved that I misinterpreted the invitation. “I’m sure I can be there. It’s no trouble.”
“Excellent. I’ll ask the new girl to forward you the invitation, and you can double-check your calendar.”
“I’ll do that.” I take a breath and try to calm down. “Anything else?”
He rises from the chair and walks the perimeter of the room past the mostly empty bookshelves. “We’re having another budget meeting on Friday, yes? For the Orangerie?”
“Absolutely. I’ll have the whole budget annotated by then.”
He nods absently and stops in front of a grandiose fireplace that hasn’t seen a real fire in decades. “Remind me—what’s your plan for this room?”
“Rare books,” I answer immediately, like the first-row student I’ve always been. “Ships’ plans, ledgers, and records. Plus, the plans for this house and Amos Wincott’s marine designs.” Hank’s ancestor dabbled in cabin design for luxury craft.
“Right. Of course.” He runs his hand along the walnut wainscoting. “Did you know Amos was a second son? Like me.” Hank turns to give me a wry smile, and it reminds me how stupidly attractive he is. “TheWincott family is thick with second sons. That’s why Amos became an architect. His brother inherited the shipyard and the shipping contracts. He had to find something else to build.”
