Page 119 of Dying to Meet You

“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 topand 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.