Chapter 10
Am I making him uncomfortable? Perhaps he fears I’ve come hoping for a pity party about a girl he probably can’t even picture anymore.
“I appreciate you saying that,” I tell him.
“And I won’t use up much of your time. I know Melanie studied creative writing with you, and I was hoping you could help me get my hands on her old schoolwork.
I already have some of her poems and a couple of longer works, but it occurred to me I might be able to access more through the school. ”
Handler looks off, tapping his fist to his mouth in thought, then returns his gaze to me—or at least to my forehead. If I didn’t know better, I’d think a giant boil had erupted there since I left the inn this morning.
“You mean, do I have copies of the literary magazine from back then?” he asks. “I don’t, unfortunately, but surely the library does. I’d be glad to speak to someone and see if there are extras—or at the very least have them photocopy pages for you.”
I smile politely. “Thank you, but I already have copies of The Muse from the time Mel was here. I’m talking about anything from, let’s say, the poetry workshops you taught. I know the college uses Blackboard, and I thought that some of her writing assignments might still be archived online.”
For a few seconds his face goes blank, expressionless, like he’s been turned to stone by an ancient curse.
“Ah yes, of course,” he says finally. “Let me have my assistant investigate and see what we can find . . . Was there anything else I could be of help with?”
“No, that’s all, and thank you. See you Thursday night.”
“As a matter of fact, you’ll see me again today. My wife and I are attending the dinner at President Williams’s house in your honor.”
“Oh great. See you tonight, then.”
He offers a second handshake before I depart.
It’s not until I’m outside, feeling the chill in the air, that I realize I’ve stupidly left my coat behind.
I return to the building and make my back to the second floor.
As I reach the anteroom, I see that Handler’s door is half open now, and I hear the murmur of someone’s voice coming from his office.
A woman’s voice. Almost without thinking, I step closer and peek through the doorway.
Handler is sitting at his desk, and the woman is standing right next to him, rather than on the other side of the desk.
She’s so close, in fact, that if she reached out a little, she could easily touch the tip of his nose.
And she must be a student because she’s young, with her hair in a long braid and a backpack slung over her shoulder.
Hearing my footsteps, they both glance over and spot me. Handler’s face is a blank, but the girl steps back a foot, appearing flustered.
I grab my coat and hurry off.
A couple of blocks from campus, a coffee shop appears on my right, and I slip inside, taking a seat at a table by the window and ordering a cup of chamomile tea. I’m feeling unsettled, I realize, by my experience with Handler, especially the part involving the young woman by his desk.
Taking a sip of tea, I try to look at the situation from his vantage point.
He’s forced into an uncomfortable meeting with the mother of a murdered student, so how can I blame him for seeming ill at ease?
As for the student, I know kids that age can sometimes act entitled and overly familiar.
Maybe the girl was pushing for a higher grade on a paper and inadvertently violated his personal space.
Mel, I know, thought highly of Handler. In her view, he was a talented poet and mesmerizing to listen to, and though he could be demanding in class, he apparently treated students with respect.
On warm days he sometimes held class in his backyard, and once or twice his wife had even joined the group.
She is, or at least was, an artist of some kind, and she’d contributed thoughtful comments on the similarities between art and poetry.
Mel hadn’t told me this, of course. I’d overheard her sharing it with Logan.
I chase Handler from my thoughts, finish my tea, and walk briskly back to the inn. It’s time to make the phone call to the West Coast, which I need to do from the privacy of my room.
I’m still not in the mood to see Logan, but he’s, of course, right there in the lobby when I arrive, standing in line at the desk behind a woman whose long hair has been colored in a blond ombre style.
At her feet is a Louis Vuitton duffel bag the size of a wolfhound.
She’s busy asking Shelly—in a voice too loud for the space—how soon she can get several of the small plates sent to the room.
As I close the door behind me, it makes a thud, and Logan turns around.
“Bree,” he says, a little too loudly himself. “There you are.”
“I’ve been at the college. Has something happened?”
“Nothing significant, but I spoke to Halligan, and I wanted to update you.”
The semi-blonde has spun around, too, as if we’ve piqued her curiosity. She’s in her mid-forties, I’d guess, and doesn’t exactly read as some college student’s mom, so she’s probably in town for another reason.
Logan crosses his arms, looking suddenly awkward, and takes a step closer to me.
“First, though,” he says, “let me introduce you to Lisa.”
My lips part in surprise. This woman is not Lisa—or at least the person I met years ago. Unless she’s decided to color her raven hair and has somehow shaved off several inches of height.
“Bree, hello,” she says from the reception desk, and flashes a too-wide smile. “Give me a moment and I’ll be right with you.”
Clearly, I’ve been confused all this time, assuming some other woman who once worked for Logan—and whose name started with an L—had reentered his life as his latest girlfriend.
I take a breath, trying to center myself and manage a smile, but by the time I do, she’s already redirected her attention back to Shelly.
I don’t want to seem like a bitch, but I also have no intention of standing around the lobby waiting for her to put in a food order.
I move past Logan into the parlor, and he follows right behind me.
He knows this is slightly uncomfortable, and since he’s Logan, the master finesser, I assume he’ll make every attempt to smooth things over.
“Sorry this is all happening in public,” he says, keeping his voice low.
“Not a problem.”
“I did text you this morning and ask you to call me.” His tone is apologetic, not accusatory. “I was going to let you know Lisa was here.”
“I said it’s not a problem, Logan. What happened with Halligan?”
“I told him which way we were leaning, and though he seemed receptive, he was noncommittal. Said he’s still waiting to hear back from the analyst.”
“Did you tell him about Jack?” I ask, dropping my own voice now.
“Yup, and I let him know he’d be in the area this week and worth talking to. All he said to that was thanks.”
A sense of dismay begins to creep over me.
“Like they’re not interested in taking another look at him?” I ask.
Logan shakes his head. “More like he’s not going to tell us one way or the other. I think he was being more candid than usual yesterday, and going forward, we’re probably going to be on a need-to-know ba—”
“Sorry for the delay.” It’s Lisa, striding from the lobby in a stylish beige coat and high brown boots, with the Louis Vuitton bag hooked over her left arm. I’m surprised she doesn’t have it handcuffed to her wrist.
I warn myself to stop the snide inner critique of her, and more importantly not to be rude. I swivel fully in her direction. Now that I’m closer, I see that her skin is nearly wrinkle-free.
“We were just catching up,” Logan overexplains.
“Of course,” Lisa says. She thrusts a hand out to me. “Bree, how nice to finally meet you.”
I’m still disconcerted by the sight of her.
Not only because she isn’t the woman I dug from my memory bank, but she’s also so different from what I consider to be Logan’s type.
From what I knew of the women he dated before me, he seemed to favor fairly laid-back, natural-seeming females, a category I thought I fell into myself.
Was he always secretly yearning for someone super chic, a woman who wore pricey designer clothes and whose lips were artificially buoyant enough to save her if she found herself shipwrecked on the high seas one day?
I accept the handshake and almost wince at the strength of her grip. It feels like she’s trying to crack a lobster claw.
“Thank you, nice to meet you, too,” I reply.
“My God, you must be exhausted.”
“I’m okay, thanks.”
“But Logan told me how long the trip is door to door. Like almost twenty-four hours, right?”
“I’ve made a bunch of trips back and forth, so I’m pretty used to it.”
“Well, that’s good, then.” She rakes a manicured hand through her hair. “I’m hopeless on overnight flights myself. You’re in that ridiculously narrow flat bed with people moving up and down the aisle, and I’m lucky if I get an hour’s sleep.”
“How was your drive from the city?” I say, deciding I need to lob at least one question her way.
“Easy-peasy, thank goodness. As I guess you know, we’re in Tribeca, so I just hopped on the West Side Highway and headed north.”
Relax, Lisa. There’s nothing left between Logan and me, so you don’t need to get all territorial.
I’m about to extricate myself from this cringe-worthy encounter, but she ends up making the first move.
“I should go up and get settled,” she says, turning to Logan. “And I ordered us a few snacks. They’re going to send them up momentarily.”
“Right, right,” Logan says. “I’ll join you in a minute.” Though he doesn’t look flustered, I know that he is.
“Okay,” she says after a brief hesitation. “See you shortly.”
She strides away, her two-toned hair swinging behind her.
“Thanks for being gracious about this,” Logan says quietly after we’ve heard the elevator ascend.