Page 43

Rowan

I shove my feet into the navy pumps and stand up. Hank Wincott is outside, and now I have to spend the next several hours pretending that I didn’t just hear horrible stories about Hank’s uncle and what went on in the Wincott Mansion.

“Thank you both.” I grab my clutch. “Got to run.”

Natalie shrugs moodily. “You’re going to miss the tomato soup and homemade crackers. But whatever.”

My gaze flies to Harrison. “You made the soup ?”

He shrugs. “There will be leftovers.”

Heading for the door, I grab a trench coat off the coat tree. A wave of garlic-scented air wafts in my direction, and I feel a pang of naked longing for Harrison’s tomato soup. He used to make it all the time that first year in Ithaca. I’d walk into our little apartment and find him stirring the only pot we owned in our galley kitchen.

“Lipstick!” Natalie yells as I walk out the door.

“Love you,” is all I reply.

Her answering smile is so conflicted.

Outside, the breeze shakes the new leaves on the trees, and I’m grateful for Natalie’s heavy hand with the hair spritz. Hank’s just climbing out of his Jag. “There she is,” he says with his homecoming-king grin.

He’s only half right, though, because I’m only half here. Even as I exchange pleasantries and slip into the passenger seat of his luxury car, my mind is on the spin cycle.

Handing over that recording to Detective Riley had gutted me. In fact, I threatened to erase it until she told me they wouldn’t pursue Laura Peebles for any drug-related crimes.

“I already knew she was an addict,” Riley told me. “She has a prior drug conviction.”

“She’s been through a lot,” I’d said guiltily.

But ultimately, I’d handed the recording over. If someone killed Tim because of his investigation, I need the police to find him.

Now I’m sitting in a Jaguar beside the person with the most to lose if Laura’s story becomes public. And I’m supposed to spend the evening smiling brightly and representing the good works of the Wincott Foundation. In a dress that Harrison stitched me into.

I pull a lipstick out of my bag and apply it, as Natalie would want me to.

“You look lovely tonight,” Hank says as the car glides down another narrow West End street.

“Thank you,” I say stiffly. “I’m ready to woo the historic preservationists of Portland.”

He chuckles. “I appreciate that. I know you had a chaotic week.”

You don’t know the half of it, pal.

Or does he? Now that I’ve heard Laura’s story, I realize how ugly things could get for the foundation. And he’s the head of that organization. The records from all those adoptions are under his control.

I wonder if there were formal complaints against Marcus, or even financial settlements.

They brought me a dead baby .

I shiver.

“If the air is up too high, feel free to adjust it.”

“I’m fine,” I lie.

Luckily, the art museum is only a few minutes’ drive away. Hank pulls up in front, where a valet opens my door.

Hank hands over the keys and looks up at the facade. “Okay, truth time. As an architect, how badly do you want to firebomb this place?”

The question takes me by surprise, and I snort out a laugh. “Pretty badly.”

“Tragic, right?” He looks up and shakes his head at the awkward design. It’s a big brick mass, with half-circle arches looping across the top and bottom. “I’ve never been sure if I’m supposed to see portholes or aqueducts.”

“Bricks aren’t cheap, so it’s a pretty expensive eyesore. But it’s still an important institution.”

Hank chuckles. “You’re always so careful with what you say.”

Because I have to be. Unlike you . I turn my head and really study him for the first time tonight. As if a careful analysis of his strong jaw and close shave could tell me the truth about what I heard today.

It couldn’t, and Hank, of course, is unaware of my turmoil. He’s the same Hank I’ve always known—the gracious man guiding me through one of the arches and down toward the banquet hall. Tipping the coat-check woman and slipping my trench coat off my shoulders.

His hands are smooth. Not like a laborer’s. Or a bass player’s, for that matter.

But are they too smooth to fire a gun? Or to pass a bundle of cash to someone who’d pull the trigger for him?

I wonder what Hank’s handwriting would look like in block letters with a black Sharpie.

“We need a drink,” Hank says, oblivious to my riotous thoughts. “And then I need to track down the mayor and say hello.”

Steering me toward one of the bars, he puts a hand lightly at the center of my back. I feel it like a brand and walk a little faster until he drops his hand. I just need to survive the next couple of hours with a smile pasted on my face. Then I can go home and hide under my quilt.

“Pick your poison,” Hank says when we arrive at the bar.

“White wine,” I blurt out. “Any kind.”

This proves a mistake when he hands me an acidic Chardonnay that tastes like the inside of an oak barrel. Whatever. I’m not here to drink. I’m here because Hank holds my career in his hands, and I didn’t feel I could say no.

Laura’s words from only a couple of hours ago echo in my head. You were expected to sit down and shut up .

She was a scared girl of seventeen, and she didn’t have a choice.

I do, though, and yet I’m still letting my good-girl complex rule me. It’s the only explanation for why I’m standing in this room, surrounded by the influential people of Portland when I’d rather be at home.

“There’s the mayor,” Hank says, cupping my elbow and angling me toward a cluster of people at the center of the room.

Somehow the good girl finds her plastic smile. I meet the mayor, a genial man in his fifties. He and Hank call each other by their first names. And Hank introduces me as “my brilliant architect, who’s spearheading the restoration and construction of the Maritime Center.”

“Terrible thing that happened on your property,” the mayor says, a frown creasing his tanned forehead. “Terrible thing. I keep asking the chief of police when he’s going to bring me some real news.”

Hank nods, his expression troubled. “They’d better get this guy soon.”

I take another sip of my oaky wine and try not to wince as I wonder whether Hank knew his uncle kept a dead baby in cold storage.

“How is the construction coming along?” the mayor asks.

I make small talk for a couple of minutes about the restoration and the West End neighborhood. And then Hank steers me onward to a business acquaintance. Another handshake. Another sip of wine. Hank’s hand is at the small of my back, and it’s a struggle not to squirm.

Anxiety begins to blur my senses. Hank introduces me to people who all look the same. I’m nodding along to the conversational patter of a man whose name I forgot the moment he pronounced it. His blue silk tie is peppered with white anchors. There’s a lot of seafaring people in this room.

In fact, it’s hard to say which had more influence on Portland, Maine—the Wincotts or the sea. I used to think that only one of those things was cold and terrifying. Tonight I’m not so sure.

Hank touches my arm to indicate who he wants to speak to next, and I grit my teeth. We come face-to-face with yet another couple, this one in their sixties. Rick and Caroline something. I paste on my professional smile.

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. All the 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.

I’m only half listening, until Deacon suddenly says, “Oh hell. Darth Vader on your six.”

A hand clamps down on Hank’s shoulder. And my boss gets a sour look on his face even before the newcomer speaks. “Shots, Henry? There comes a time when the drunken bachelor thing stops being cool and starts looking pathetic.”

It’s Hank’s older brother, William Wincott the... fourth? Fifth? He’s an inch taller than Hank, and slimmer, with darker hair and a hard mouth.

“Lucky for you,” Hank says, “having that stick up your ass actually looks better with age, bro. You’ve finally grown into your dry personality.”

Deacon honks out a laugh, but William looks stormy. For a half second I wonder if he’ll haul off and punch his younger brother. But then a woman appears at William’s side. She’s a tall woman with the kind of complexion that could only be called “porcelain,” in a gorgeous floor-length gown. His wife, I think. Cecilia Wincott.

“Ooh, vodka,” she says. “Deal me in.” Then she puts a hand on Hank’s sleeve. “When am I getting a tour of the mansion renovation?”

“Absolutely,” her husband snaps. “Maybe he’ll throw an opening gala for his vanity project, and we’ll do more shots in the parlor that costs a few million over budget.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Hank says tightly.

“Should have sold the place and let some developer turn it into condos,” says William with a bitter laugh.

“What an interesting take,” I hear myself say. “Especially at an event for the Historical Commission.” And when heads swivel, I hold my hand out to William. “Hi, we haven’t properly met. I’m—”

“I know who you are,” William says, turning to fix his chilly gaze on me. “The architect who has cheap taste in men and expensive taste in fixtures.”

“Enough,” Hank snaps, grabbing his brother’s biceps and tugging him away.

The three of us are left standing awkwardly together, and Cecilia Wincott grasps my hand—still held out in greeting—and shakes it. “Sorry about that,” she says. “They make Thanksgiving fun, too. I’m Cecilia.”

“Rowan,” I say, swallowing my shock. “I’m the architect at the mansion. You can stop by for a tour anytime.”

“I’d love to,” she says, even as Hank and William hiss at each other from a few feet away.

I take another gulp of wine, and realize the glass is half gone already. I don’t even know how it happened.