gave you his homework?”
“No. She said she couldn’t do that—it wasn’t allowed. Not even for you, Miss Atkins. ” She mimics Dawson’s voice to a tee.
“So you didn’t get it?”
“Of course I got it.”
“Great. Where is it?”
“I’m getting to that part.” She turns in to the street and the driver she cuts off lays on the horn. “So I start asking her questions about the auction—so she thinks that’s why I came in, right?—and Dawson starts telling me about this great cabin in Wisconsin that the Allens own.…”
“Oh, please. You’re killing me. Get to the point.”
“Okay, okay. So we’re talking about the auction, and Señor Argotta comes in and drops a stack of papers on the counter. She thanks him, he leaves, she goes to the monitor—now she’s telling me about some antique photos someone else is donating to auction off—grabs a Post-it, writes down the address, and sticks it on the pile.”
“And?”
She pauses for dramatic effect. “Two-eight-two Greenwood.”
“What about the phone number?”
She flips around to face me. “Are you kidding? No Thanks, Emma ? No You’re amazing, Emma ?” She brings her attention back to the road, shaking her head.
“I just wanted to call—”
“Well, she didn’t write down his phone number, and I couldn’t see the screen. But don’t you see? I got the better of the two!”
“But now I have to go there!” I wince at the thought.
She shoots me that satisfied smile she wears when she gets her way. “Exactly.”
I can’t believe I’m doing this.
I peek out from behind the tall hedge again and stare at the house. Impressive. Two, maybe even three, stories. Tudor style. A carriage house out back, if I’m assessing accurately from this distance and the three times I’ve walked past the house, chickened out, and hidden behind shrubbery.
Why am I doing this?
I let out a heavy sigh as I move from behind the bushes, walk toward the house again—this time with a determined stride—and turn onto the recently shoveled walkway. It’s only 5:30, but it’s almost completely dark, and I’m shaking as I climb the steps. When I reach the top, I pick up the lion’shead door knocker and take a deep breath before I bring it down.
I wait.
There’s no answer.
I knock again, tightening my coat against the wind, and glad I’ve traded my tights and skirt for jeans.
Just as I turn to leave, I hear footsteps. “Who’s there?” asks an elderly-sounding woman from the other side of the door.
“I’m sorry. Never mind.” I back away and head for the steps. “I think I have the wrong house.”
The dead bolt makes a heavy thunk and the door opens slowly. She’s older but not elderly, and striking, with long gray hair and smoky blue eyes. She’s wearing a red silk scarf over her dark, loose-hanging clothes, and smiling at me with a curious expression.
“Hi.” She opens the door, wide and welcoming.
“Hi. I’m looking for someone named Bennett, but I’m so sorry. I think I have the wrong address.” I start to turn away again.
“No, you don’t; Bennett’s here. Come on in and warm up.” She moves back to make room for me in the entryway.
“I’m Maggie.” She holds out her hand.
“Anna.” I shake it, still wondering who she is.
“You must be a friend from school.”
“Yes.” I’m not sure I qualify as a friend, but it’s the simplest answer. “I’m sorry to impose, ma’am.” Yes. I’m an idiot for coming here. And I’m just now realizing this.
“No imposition, dear.” She gestures toward the room on the other side of a wide arch. “Have a seat, and I’ll go up and get him.”
I peek inside as she turns and starts up the staircase. The living room, with its massive windows, is beautiful, tastefully decorated with dark antique furniture that makes it even more welcoming than I expected it would be. The fire is warm and creates a soft glow.
Instead of sitting on the couch, I walk around, taking a
“No. She said she couldn’t do that—it wasn’t allowed. Not even for you, Miss Atkins. ” She mimics Dawson’s voice to a tee.
“So you didn’t get it?”
“Of course I got it.”
“Great. Where is it?”
“I’m getting to that part.” She turns in to the street and the driver she cuts off lays on the horn. “So I start asking her questions about the auction—so she thinks that’s why I came in, right?—and Dawson starts telling me about this great cabin in Wisconsin that the Allens own.…”
“Oh, please. You’re killing me. Get to the point.”
“Okay, okay. So we’re talking about the auction, and Señor Argotta comes in and drops a stack of papers on the counter. She thanks him, he leaves, she goes to the monitor—now she’s telling me about some antique photos someone else is donating to auction off—grabs a Post-it, writes down the address, and sticks it on the pile.”
“And?”
She pauses for dramatic effect. “Two-eight-two Greenwood.”
“What about the phone number?”
She flips around to face me. “Are you kidding? No Thanks, Emma ? No You’re amazing, Emma ?” She brings her attention back to the road, shaking her head.
“I just wanted to call—”
“Well, she didn’t write down his phone number, and I couldn’t see the screen. But don’t you see? I got the better of the two!”
“But now I have to go there!” I wince at the thought.
She shoots me that satisfied smile she wears when she gets her way. “Exactly.”
I can’t believe I’m doing this.
I peek out from behind the tall hedge again and stare at the house. Impressive. Two, maybe even three, stories. Tudor style. A carriage house out back, if I’m assessing accurately from this distance and the three times I’ve walked past the house, chickened out, and hidden behind shrubbery.
Why am I doing this?
I let out a heavy sigh as I move from behind the bushes, walk toward the house again—this time with a determined stride—and turn onto the recently shoveled walkway. It’s only 5:30, but it’s almost completely dark, and I’m shaking as I climb the steps. When I reach the top, I pick up the lion’shead door knocker and take a deep breath before I bring it down.
I wait.
There’s no answer.
I knock again, tightening my coat against the wind, and glad I’ve traded my tights and skirt for jeans.
Just as I turn to leave, I hear footsteps. “Who’s there?” asks an elderly-sounding woman from the other side of the door.
“I’m sorry. Never mind.” I back away and head for the steps. “I think I have the wrong house.”
The dead bolt makes a heavy thunk and the door opens slowly. She’s older but not elderly, and striking, with long gray hair and smoky blue eyes. She’s wearing a red silk scarf over her dark, loose-hanging clothes, and smiling at me with a curious expression.
“Hi.” She opens the door, wide and welcoming.
“Hi. I’m looking for someone named Bennett, but I’m so sorry. I think I have the wrong address.” I start to turn away again.
“No, you don’t; Bennett’s here. Come on in and warm up.” She moves back to make room for me in the entryway.
“I’m Maggie.” She holds out her hand.
“Anna.” I shake it, still wondering who she is.
“You must be a friend from school.”
“Yes.” I’m not sure I qualify as a friend, but it’s the simplest answer. “I’m sorry to impose, ma’am.” Yes. I’m an idiot for coming here. And I’m just now realizing this.
“No imposition, dear.” She gestures toward the room on the other side of a wide arch. “Have a seat, and I’ll go up and get him.”
I peek inside as she turns and starts up the staircase. The living room, with its massive windows, is beautiful, tastefully decorated with dark antique furniture that makes it even more welcoming than I expected it would be. The fire is warm and creates a soft glow.
Instead of sitting on the couch, I walk around, taking a
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