Chapter 19
“Thank you, but that’s not necessary,” I say. “I’m in the mood for a walk again.”
“See you tomorrow night, then,” Handler says. “Shall I mention to Alison that you dropped by?”
Maybe he thinks I don’t want her to know I was peeking in her windows, and that I’d be grateful if he kept it between us.
“Yes, please. Tell her I’m sorry I missed her, but it’s my fault entirely.”
As I make my way up the path, I feel his eyes on my back.
I turn left at the sidewalk, then walk rapidly—almost jogging, really—until I’m back at the corner of Birch and Oak Street, the spot where the taxi left me.
Since Craig mentioned he was calling it quits for the night, I order an Uber and sigh gratefully when I see the wait will be only five minutes.
So, what’s Handler doing now? I wonder, still winded.
Flicking on the house lights and deciding to call Alison to see if what I told him was true?
She’ll probably say she had extended a welcome for me to visit but that I’d shown little interest, and we’d certainly never discussed a possible time.
She might even wonder if I’m a little batty.
I’m not even sure myself why I felt the need to peer through those windows.
Alison intrigues me, but it’s Handler my mind keeps landing on.
Though I still don’t have any real sense of him, there’s one thing I do know: I make him uncomfortable.
I felt it in his office, I felt it at dinner, and I certainly felt it tonight.
And then there’s the fact that he still didn’t come clean about the archive. Even if Mel hadn’t uploaded material there, it seems Handler should have at least mentioned it to me. I need to check whether it’s still in existence without him knowing what I’m up to.
I also need to learn more about him, particularly his reputation when it comes to female students. Maya certainly wouldn’t be forthcoming, and it’s hardly a question for Chip. But there is someone who might be able to shed more light.
When I enter the inn a short time later, the lobby is empty except for Shelly, puttering silently behind the front desk. There’s a murmur of male voices from the parlor, though—and one of them is Logan’s. Curious, I peer inside.
It’s all cozy in there right now. Only the table lamps are burning, creating soft puddles of light around the room, and the gas fireplace is on.
Logan’s sitting in a wingback chair facing the door, and he straightens as he sees me, then lifts his chin, a signal of some kind, though I’m not sure what it means.
And then I get it—because of the long legs extending from the chair across from him. They must belong to Jack Lawler. Logan had said they were meeting for a drink, but I had no idea that would happen here.
“Oh, Bree, come in,” he calls out. “I’m sorry not to phone you back, but now you’ll see why.”
I proceed into the parlor.
“You remember Jack, don’t you?” Logan says next, and a second later my daughter’s ex has twisted around so he’s facing in my direction.
“Ms. Winter, so nice to see you again,” Jack says, starting to stand.
“Please don’t get up,” I tell him.
“I was just about to anyway.” He rises fully, dressed in a tight-fitting black V-neck sweater, slim black jeans, and spiffy black-and-gray sneakers. He takes a couple of steps in my direction and shakes my hand. “I’m due to meet a friend for dinner.”
Up close, I see that he’s even more attractive than he was in college.
His face—clean-shaven now—has filled out in a good way, softening the lines a little, and the short haircut draws attention to his features instead of distracting from them the way the long tousles once did.
As I take him in, I can’t help but think of poor Mel, forever frozen as a college junior.
Occasionally, I’ve dared to wonder what she would look like as an almost-thirty-year old, but mostly I spare myself the anguish of going there.
“A friend from Carter?” I ask.
I couldn’t care less who it is, but I’m stealing time. Logan will fill me in about Jack later, but I need to take a measure of him myself before he splits.
“Yeah, a guy who decided to stay in the area,” he says with another smile. “I haven’t seen him in ages, so it will be good to catch up.”
“And how nice of you to come to the reception.”
“It’s my pleasure, actually,” Jack says. “I was so impressed when I heard about the scholarships and the new Muse office. I figured this was a way for me to pay tribute to Mel. I still think about her a lot.”
He always had presence, but he’s got poise now, too. Gone, I notice, are the self-soothing gestures I remember so vividly from when we had coffee with Mel and him—he would frequently tug at his chin or rake his fingers through his hair.
It unnerved me a little, especially the way it contrasted with the confident, unentangled way he performed his roles onstage.
“I appreciate that,” I tell him. “It helps to know people still think of Mel.”
“Of course,” he says, and runs a hand along the side of his head. So not completely unentangled now.
“Well, I should let you get to your dinner. Enjoy your evening.”
“Thanks. And see you both tomorrow night.”
Logan’s risen by now as well, and Jack offers him a quick handshake goodbye, thanks him for the drink, and then strides into the lobby, leaving a trail of musky cologne.
For a half minute Logan and I stand nearly motionless until we hear the click of the front door over the insistent hum from the fireplace.
“I didn’t realize you were meeting him here,” I say, not accusing, just curious.
“It was a last-minute decision. I had a hunch it might give me a leg up to do it on my turf, instead of in some bar.”
“And?”
“There’s some stuff worth sharing, but, God”—he shoots a hand from the sleeve of his zippered cardigan and glances quickly at his watch—“I’m starving. Have you had dinner yet?”
“No.”
“Want to grab a bite somewhere? There’s a little Italian restaurant I discovered about twelve, fifteen, minutes from here. The food’s nice.”
I hesitate. Sitting at the table with him in Uruguay had been both awkward and sad, and I’m not sure I want to repeat it.
But I’m hungry myself, and the brief conversation with Jack has only added to how churned up I feel tonight.
Maybe a glass of wine and some comfort food will help, even if I’m eating across from Logan.
“If you prefer, I can order something for you while I’m there and drop it off later,” he says, clearly sensing my ambivalence.
“No, I’d like to go. Can you give me a few minutes, though? I want to run upstairs.”
“Sure thing.”
As soon as I’m in my room, I follow the plan I made on the street corner, placing a second call to Harry Kronish.
“Hey,” he says in lieu of hello. “What’s up?”
“Sorry to trouble you again, Harry. But I had one more question.”
“No problem.”
“You said you thought Mel might have been seeing someone new but she never volunteered a name. Any idea at all who it could have been?”
“None whatsoever. Like I told you, there seemed to be something a little clandestine about the whole thing.”
“Clandestine?” I feel goose bumps race along my arms. “I don’t recall you using that word before.”
“I think I said she seemed like the cat that ate the canary, though clandestine works, too, I suppose. It’s so long ago now, but I remember sensing she wanted to keep it secret, even from me for the time being.”
Mel had been secretive with Logan and me since she was thirteen, but in time I learned she could be that way even with her friends.
I’ve never forgotten a comment made by her pal Sara at the high school graduation party we threw for Mel in our loft.
I asked her what she’d miss the most about the city once she left for college, and after she’d listed a few things, I inquired—always greedy for even a morsel about my daughter—what she thought Melanie would miss.
Sara shrugged and said, “Gosh, I’m not sure.
You know, Mel. She’s always kind of a mystery. ”
I take a breath. “Could the guy have been a professor?”
“A professor? Uh, gee, it’s possible, I guess. It wouldn’t have been the smartest thing, but she seemed kind of restless after Jack, like she wanted to, you know, shake things up. She even wondered one night if she should have gone to a bigger college.”
Something else I didn’t know about my daughter.
I exhale slowly, thinking. I hate being a flamethrower, but if I want to get anywhere, I’m going to have to light a match.
“Do you remember Jeffrey Handler from your time at Carter?” I ask.
“Of course—I had the guy for a couple of classes. Wait, are you thinking it might have been him?”
“I’m just posing the question for now. Did she ever talk about him?”
“Well, I know she loved the classes she took with him, but she never hinted at anything more than that, at least to me.”
“Just one more question, and I promise to let you go, Harry,” I say. “Were there ever any rumors about Handler sleeping with students?”
“Students, no, not from what I know.”
“What do you mean by ‘students, no’?”
There’s a pause, and I sense him weighing his words.
“I don’t think I’ve ever told this to a soul, because I figured it was none of my business, but the summer before junior year, I saw him once in a restaurant with another woman.
She was attractive, blond, I think, and maybe thirtyish, so definitely not a student.
And definitely not his wife because I knew what Mrs. Handler looked like. ”
I bite my lip, letting the image form in my mind.
“Could it have been a colleague? Or a friend?”
“Nah, they seemed flirty, and at one point he had his hand on top of hers. The location was kind of a red flag, too. They were in Rhinebeck, my hometown. That’s an hour and a half drive from Cartersville, which made me think they were on the down-low.”
So, from the sound of it, Handler does step out on his lovely second wife. Or at least he did in the past.
“Okay, thanks, Harry. Just so you know, I don’t have a good reason to suspect Handler of anything, so please don’t breathe this to a soul.”
“Got it. Just promise you’ll let me know if there’s any news.”
“Promise.”
I’ve been gone at least fifteen minutes by now, and Logan is probably pacing the lobby, ready to eat the drapes, but I take a minute to pull my thoughts together.
Though the woman Handler looked tight with in the restaurant hadn’t been college age, he might be open to the idea under the right circumstances, just as he was with Alison.
There was the little scene in his office, after all.
Of course, it’s a big leap to think he was involved with Mel, and yet if he’s got a preference for young women, I can certainly see him being drawn to someone like her—smart, pretty, intriguing, and with a level of New York City–born sophistication that might suggest she could be discreet.
Would she have been game? I’d be disappointed to learn she’d been involved with another woman’s husband, especially in light of my own situation, but I can picture Handler’s allure back then: the supposedly brilliant, erudite, accomplished poet, and a way to, quote, “shake things up” after Jack.
Besides, she was only nineteen, an age known for making regrettable choices.
I finally force myself off the bed and swap the blouse I’ve had on all day for a fresh one. I make a quick attempt to fluff my hair. It’s so slicked to my head that I look like a small dog who’s just emerged from its bath.
As I start for the door, my mind remains stalled on Handler. If he does pursue college girls, he’s probably damn careful about it. Being caught sleeping with a student would not only cost him tenure but also make it really tough for him to secure another teaching job.
What if he thought he was getting away with it and then realized the secret was in danger of being revealed, that a girl who initially seemed like the model of discretion was starting to blab to friends or reveal the affair in poems and short stories—or even worse, threatening to accuse him of misconduct?
How far would he go to protect himself?