My conversation with Eve gnaws at the edges of my mind, and not just because of her smug dismissal of me. It’s because of the comment she made about the dinner guests. Could one of them be the thief?
I weigh the possibility. There’s little chance any of them is desperate for money, so the motive would have to be spite. I can’t imagine what either Guy or I could have done to provoke that. Yet there’s Kim, isn’t there? And the odd hostility I sensed from her minutes after she arrived. It’s hard to believe, however, that instant distaste for me would have compelled her to sneak into my office, steal the cash, and leave a menacing message behind. And surely she didn’t just happen to arrive with a box of burnt kitchen matches tucked into her evening bag.
No, it can’t be her or any of the other guests. It’s got to be one of the waiters—or Eve herself. And what frustrates the hell out of me is the fact that I may never know.
Wind gusts down the street, snapping the awning above me and sending paper napkins airborne from the tables. A cluster of young women dash by, laughing over something one is showing the others on her phone. I can’t remember the last time I dashed anywhere—or looked that happy. Am I really going to spend my summer in Saratoga napping the days away and fretting over issues I can’t solve?
I rest my elbows on the table and press my head into my hands, hurrying my thoughts along. What I need to do, I realize, is put myself in motion. Buying the flowers yesterday and arranging the table reinforced that for me. Motion begets motion. And if I can get enough motion going, maybe the energy will help me finally generate words on a page.
Derek’s class. That’s one idea. Maybe I should say yes, even if I have to hitch myself across the classroom floor like a seal. I can at least meet with him in the next week to discuss the possibility.
And then there was the woman who dropped by yesterday. Sandra Something. I’m not wild about the idea of sitting down for lunch with a stranger at this point, but she seemed eager, and it would be an activity, at least.
Once I return home, I expect my energy to flag, but surprisingly it doesn’t yet. I immediately shoot an email to Derek, or rather two. He’s already written to both Guy and me this morning, thanking us for the dinner. I reply to that one with a cc to Guy, and then compose a separate note saying he’s piqued my interest about the class and I’d love to discuss it with him when he has the chance.
It occurs to me that, down the road, Derek may even be someone I could interview for a book on reinvention. If I could just get the damn proposal off the ground.
I open the Word document I’ve been using, and, thinking of Derek and his novel, I tap out a few sentences about how reinvention isn’t always about something brand-new. It can be about taking an old dream and wrestling it from the darkness.
Not much but better than yesterday. At least it’s not “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,” like that terrifying scene from The Shining.
Next, I retrieve Sandra Dowd’s goodie bag from where I’ve stashed it in the hall closet. I don’t find a business card, but there’s a note card with her name and number scrawled on it. She answers on the fourth ring with just a hello.
“Sandra?”
There’s a pause and I sense her trying to place my voice.
“Yes?”
“It’s Bryn Harper.
“Oh, hello. How nice to hear from you.”
“I was just following up on the idea of us having lunch.”
“I’d love that. The only hitch is that I’m still in Syracuse, on business. I was only supposed to stay for a day, but I may be here through Sunday. Can I call you once I know my schedule?”
“Of course.”
“By the way, how was the dinner party? Were you happy with the caterer in the end?”
“There were a few issues, unfortunately.”
“Oh dear. Was the food bad?”
“No, but I think one of the staff stole some cash.” I regret the remark as soon as it’s escaped my lips. I shouldn’t be gossiping up here.
“That’s terrible.”
“The owner is looking into it, so hopefully it will be resolved. Give me a call when you get back, okay?”
“Definitely.”
I provide my number and hang up. Setting the phone down, I spot a response from Derek, and an invitation to lunch on Monday to discuss next steps. I email him back saying that works perfectly for me.
I feel almost giddy from this burst of productivity—too giddy, it turns out, for my own good. At around three, I’m ambushed by what seems like a tsunami-sized wave of fatigue. I stagger out onto the screened porch and collapse on the daybed. In seconds I’m out cold.
When I finally wake it’s almost four thirty and my phone is ringing. I see Guy’s name on the screen.