“No?”
He settles back to gather his thoughts. Then: “Let me ask you something. What did you have for breakfast, Miss Tripp?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’s a straightforward question. Eggs? Toast? A yogurt, perhaps?”
She shrugs, playing along. “If you must know, I had oatmeal.”
“And you’re quite certain? No doubts in your mind.”
“None.”
“How about last Tuesday? Was it oatmeal or something else?”
“Why this curiosity about my breakfast?”
“Indulge me. Last Tuesday. It wasn’t very long ago, surely you ate something.”
“I haven’t the foggiest.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not important.”
“Not worth remembering, in other words.”
She shrugs again. “I suppose not.”
“Now, how about that scar on your hand?” He gestures toward the one holding the poised pen. The mark, a series of pale, semicircular depressions, runs from the base of her index finger to the top of her wrist. “How did you get that? It looks to be quite old.”
“You’re very observant.”
“I don’t mean to be impertinent. Merely demonstrating a point.”
She shifts uncomfortably in her chair. “If you must know, I was bitten by a dog. I was eight years old.”
“So you do remember that. Not what you ate last week, but something that happened long ago.”
“Yes, of course. It scared the hell out of me.”
“I’m sure it did. Was it your dog or a neighbor’s? A stray, perhaps?”
Her expression grows irritated. Not irritated: exposed. As he watches, she reaches with her other hand to the scar and covers it with her palm. The gesture is involuntary; she isn’t aware that she is doing it, or is only partly cognizant.
“Professor, I fail to see the point in all this.”
“So it was your dog.”
She startles.
“Forgive me, Miss Tripp, but if it wasn’t, you wouldn’t be so defensive. The way you covered your hand just now? It tells me something else.”
She moves her hand away deliberately. “And what’s that?”
“Two things. One, you believe it was your fault. Perhaps you were playing too roughly. Perhaps you teased him, not meaning to, or maybe a little. Either way, you were part of it. You did something, and the dog responded by biting you.”
She shows no reaction. “And what’s the other?”
“That you never told anyone the truth.”
The look on her face tells Logan that he has hit the mark. There is a third thing, of course, that has gone unstated: the dog was put down, perhaps unjustly. Nevertheless, after a moment passes, she breaks into a grin. Two can play at this game.
“That’s quite a trick, Professor. I’ll bet your students love it.”
Now he’s the one who smiles. “Touché. But it’s not a trick, Miss Tripp, not entirely. The point is a meaningful one. History isn’t what you had for breakfast. That’s meaningless data, gone with the wind. History is that scar on your hand. It’s the stories that leave a mark, the past that refuses to stay past.”
She hesitates. “You mean … like Amy.”
“Exactly. Like Amy.”
Their eyes meet. Over the course of the interview, a subtle shift has occured. A barrier has unexpectedly fallen, or so it feels. Logan notes yet again how attractive she is—the word he thinks of, somewhat old-fashioned, is “lovely”—and that she wears no ring. It has been a while for him. Since his divorce, Logan has dated only occasionally and never for long. He does not still love his ex-wife; that isn’t the problem. The marriage, he has come to understand, was really a kind of elaborate friendship. He isn’t sure quite what the problem is, though he has begun to suspect that he is simply one of those people who is destined to be alone, a creature of work and duty and not much else. Is his interlocutor’s flirtatious manner merely a tactic, or is there more to it? He knows that he is, for his age, passably appealing. He swims fifty laps each morning, is still blessed with a full head of hair, favors pricey, well-tailored suits and somewhat splashy ties. He is aware of women and maintains a certain courtly style—holding doors, offering his umbrella, rising when a female companion excuses herself from the table. But age is age. Nessa calls him “Professor,” the appropriate mode of address, yet the word also carries a reminder that he is at least twenty years older than she is: old enough, technically, to be her father.
“Well,” he says, rising from his chair. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Tripp, I’m afraid I’ll have to stop there. I’m running late for a lunch engagement.”
She seems caught off guard by this announcement—jarred from some complex mental state by this ordinary detail of a day. “Yes, of course. I shouldn’t have kept you so long.”
“May I show you out?”