Page 80 of Dying to Meet You
Amos built this one a decade after the mansion. It doesn’t have the same ornate splendor, but it’s still very attractive, rising to four stories, with a brick facade. The Wincotts have been counting their money inside this Congress Street address for a hundred and fifty years.
Beatrice is probably right about the way that Hank sees the worlddifferently from most people. How strange it must have been to grow up seeing your name splashed across office buildings, university libraries, and monuments all over Maine. Even the private school Hank and I attended has a Wincott Terrace on the campus.
I push through the revolving door and enter the lobby. An elderly security guard in a blue suit with gold buttons blinks at me from behind a desk.
“I’m here to leave a file for Hank Wincott,” I tell him. “Isn’t that the fourth floor?” A few months have passed since I last visited Hank here at the office. He usually comes to the mansion.
The old man nods, and I walk over to the elevator and press the brass button.
When the car arrives, I step inside and fish the file folder out of my bag. Maybe if I leave my carefully annotated budget revision at his office, we can Zoom this meeting next week, and I won’t have to return here.
I get off the elevator on the fourth floor and proceed to the C-suite. On my first visit, Hank explained how the entire Wincott shipping empire had been housed in these offices before the corporation relocated to the mid-Atlantic in the eighties.
Now the Wincott Foundation is the major tenant, with Hank occupying the best office suite in the building. As I step inside, I realize two things, and they’re both startling.
First, this office is nearly identical to the library in the mansion. The dimensions of the room are a little different, but the paneling, the fixtures, and the ornate ceiling are just the same. As if Amos Wincott only had one idea in his entire life.
It’s a little eerie.
The second striking thing is Hank’s assistant, who’s seated behind a mahogany desk. She’s in her mid-twenties and ravishingly beautiful, with straightened blond hair, perfect red lipstick, and beautiful shoulders. Like a ballerina.
Hank Wincott has atype. The dataset may be small, but I’ve noticed that he surrounds himself with beautiful young women. Beatrice fits the same mold.
“Oh, Rowan,” she says softly. I guess she’s not quite Beatrice’s twin, because this one lacks my friend’s confidence. “I’m sorry to say that Hank has left for the day. He was supposed to call you.”
I open my mouth to say hello, and then I realize I’ve forgotten her name. It’s something delicate and a little unusual. Hank always calls herthe new girl.
So now I’m just as bad as him, because I can’t remember it.
“Um, I heard about the meeting. Beatrice just called me on my walk over here.”
Her quick smile is apologetic. “I’m so sorry you came all this way.”
“It’s fine. I thought I’d just leave my report for him. So he’ll get it on Monday.”
“Oh sure.” She rises from her chair as I hand over the folder. “I’ll just put it on his desk.”
As she turns toward the door to the inner office, I’m struck by an idea. A risky one, but I might never get another chance like this. “Actually...”
She turns.
“While I’m here, I thought maybe I could sneak a peek at the mansion archives? I’m preparing a presentation for Hank about our lighting restoration, and there are some relevant documents in Hank’s office. Could I see those, please?”
She frowns, and I brace myself for her refusal. “They’re in a file box, I think? Let’s see if I can find them.” She’s already crossing through to the inner office. “Let’s just look in the cabinet. If you could follow me.”
I trail her inside. Again, it’s just like the library’s setup—except a little larger, and with a killer view. Casco Bay sparkles in the June sunlight. It’s almost blinding.
Everything else, though, is weirdly familiar. Last time I was here, the mansion was still in the demo phase, and Beatrice and I weren’t working in the library yet. That’s why I hadn’t noted all the similarities. The same cabinet drawers. The same leaded-glass windows. The same brass hardware on every file drawer.
Hank was right—Amos Wincott was a hack. Not only did he knock off the European countryside. He plagiarizedhimself.
Hank’s assistant drops my report on his enormous desk—a mahoganymonstrosity by the window. It’s exactly the piece of furniture you’d buy if you wanted to show the world how rich you are, and how large your penis is.
On the other side of the room is a meeting table for six. Hank’s assistant crosses to the cabinets on the adjacent wall and opens a couple of them tentatively.
“This is it, I think?” She lifts out a familiar archival box.
“Yes ma’am.” My heart beats a little faster as she sets it on the table.
