Miranda pulled the front door open, and the driver jumped out of his Town Car, bounding up our steps to collect the luggage. Miranda followed him down to the car, a sharp wind plucking at the hem of her dress. She turned to wave at me, and she looked frail and cold in her inadequate clothes. Before I shut the door she pulled her huge sunglasses out of her purse and put them on, then blew me a kiss.
The day loomed before me. I had phone calls to make and a prospectus to proofread, but that would only take about half a morning. I gathered a cup of coffee, then went to my computer. I Googled the name Lily Hayward for about the hundredth time but nothing came up that seemed like her, besides her job listing at Winslow College. I Googled the town of Winslow and mapped a route from my house to a promising-looking restaurant in the town’s center. What harm would it do if I drove out there for lunch? It was going to be a beautiful October day; after a hot, extended summer the leaves were just now at their peak. I could take a walk, eat some lunch, see the town that Lily lived in. And if I saw her—and the chances of that were slim—then what would the harm be? We wouldn’t need to say hello, and if we did, would it possibly make a difference?
I did my work, then showered and dressed. At my garage I decided, on the spur of the moment, to take out my vintage 1976 Porsche 911, the car I’d bought after I’d made my first big deal, instead of the Audi. I avoided the Pike and drove toward the river, getting onto Storrow Drive. The river was filled with college rowers, prepping for the upcoming Head of the Charles weekend. The day was perfection, the sky only creased by the vapor trails of airplanes. I looked up, wondering if I was seeing the remnants of the plane that was taking my wife to Florida.
From Storrow Drive I got onto Soldiers Field Road, then wound my way through Waltham and Newton till I found Boston Post Road, and headed west through the suburbs toward Winslow. Shifting gears, I wondered why I had ever gotten the automatic transmission on my Audi. The next car I bought would be a standard.
I drove down Main Street in Winslow center, looking for parking in the surprisingly busy downtown. Students were crossing the street in large groups. Mostly girls in jeans and boots, with hair pulled back in ponytails. Waiting for several to cross the walkway, I peered through the abutting metal gates toward the college campus. I could see three low brick buildings that bordered a carefully manicured lawn. A line of oaks marked a path across the campus. Was Lily in one of the buildings I could see? Was she the type who brought a sensible lunch and ate in her office or did she walk into the town center for lunch? It was a Friday, after all, a sunny October day. The car behind me honked and I put the Porsche in gear, then turned off Main onto a side street with metered parking. I found a spot, and walked back toward the group of restaurants I’d passed earlier. The place I’d read about—the Carvery—was there, but I chose a restaurant called Alison’s, that had an open outside table that faced both the high midday sun and Winslow’s campus. I ordered a Bloody Mary and a Cobb salad from the college student waitress, and watched the pedestrians pass by. The students had the scrub-faced look of earnest young feminists. They hauled backpacks that looked as though they’d put a football player into traction. The nonstudents were mostly middle-aged housewives out for shopping and lunch. They wore handmade scarfs and flouncy clothes that hid their hips. I saw a few professor types—men with bad haircuts and tweedy jackets, and women who looked like older versions of the solemn young students. But I didn’t see Lily, even when, after lunch, and a second Bloody Mary, I took a walk through Winslow’s campus.
It was a pretty college, its campus gently sloping away from Winslow center down toward a pond that was circled with a walking path. I sat for a while on a wooden bench in the botanic gardens, next to a conservatory with a high peaked roof. There was no one around, and I imagined that this might be the type of place where Lily would bring her lunch. To this very bench maybe. I stayed seated until clouds appeared in the sky and the sun disappeared and suddenly it was cold.
I’d forgotten to refeed the parking meter after lunch and I had a Town of Winslow parking violation under my wiper. Fifteen dollars. I slid it into my jacket pocket and lowered myself into the Porsche. I was tired all of a sudden, and took the Pike all the way back to Boston, arriving at home just as I received a text from Miranda that she had safely landed in Miami and the festivities had begun. I texted her back, then went to my computer to check my e-mails. It was a slow period for me, not that I needed the work. The stock market, after years of stagnation, was surging again. My portfolio was healthy, and work was just a matter of filling my time.
Another text from Miranda: don’t forget take the lamb out of the freezer.