“And you knew Sadie Rawson, too?”
“Of course. Great couple. Both so proud of you. Listen, I’d love to meet you, if you’ve got the time. I don’t know how long you’re planning to stay in Atlanta—”
“I’m flying back to Washington today, actually.”
“Glad I caught you, then. I live just over in Brookhaven. How about breakfast? I could be at your hotel in an hour.”
? ? ?
ETHAN SINCLARE CROSSED the room as if he owned it. Tall and power-fully built, he had the lithe body of a man who still put in regular hours on the tennis court. Sinclare wore a dark suit and gleaming cuff links. He fit right in with the expense-account crowd now polishing off breakfast in the St. Regis.
“Thank you so much for seeing me.” He took both my hands in his huge ones and gave them a squeeze, before taking his seat. “I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw the article this morning. Usually I don’t see the paper until I get to the gym. Betsy—my wife—she reads the copy that comes to the house. But she was up early today, walking the dog, and the front page was already spread out on the kitchen counter when I came downstairs. It took my breath away.”
He unfolded a white linen napkin across his lap. I saw now that he was older than he’d appeared from a distance. Salt-and-pepper hair, and a patrician face, tanned and deeply lined. He must have been sixty-five, maybe older. He sat studying me, too.
“You’re very like her.”
I nodded. “So I’ve been told.”
“You really are. You’ve got her smile. She was tinier, though. Petite.” His eyes roamed over me, but not in a salacious, Leland-esque way. This did not feel sexual. “It’s jarring, seeing your face. Trying to reconcile it, you know, with Sadie Rawson’s. I didn’t know her all that well. And it’s been a long, long time. But the resemblance is unmistakable.”
The waiter bustled up. “Good morning, sir. Madam.” He winked at me. “What may I bring you this morning? Your favorite sweet-potato pancakes?” God, they were good at these high-end hotels. This poor man must have served dozens of people yesterday, and here he remembered my order.
“No, thank you, just the yogurt and fruit today. And . . . umm, maybe a side of bacon.”
“Very good.” He bowed. “And for you, sir? Might I suggest the lobster frittata? Served with fingerling potatoes, fresh horseradish—”
Sinclare, who had not so much as glanced at the menu, waved him off. “Two eggs, please, scrambled. With a whole-wheat bagel, toasted, no butter. Sriracha sauce on the side.”
“Sir-rotch . . . sorry?”
“Sriracha sauce. They’ll have it. Thanks so much.” Sinclare turned back to me and smiled. “Gives a bit of kick to the eggs.”
“Ah. I’ll have to try it sometime.”
“It’s come to me, now that we’re talking food. Why you look familiar. You do look like your mother, no question, but also a bit like that woman with the cooking show. The Englishwoman, looks Italian? Always licking frosting off her fingers.”
“Nigella Lawson.”
“That’s the one!”
“I’m trying to remember exactly what she looks like. Whether I should feel flattered or insulted.”
“Oh, feel flattered. The camera doesn’t zoom in and linger on all that frosting-licking for nothing. Betsy adores her show. But I gather you’re in a different line of work than the lovely Nigella. A professor, was it? French lit?”
“That’s right. Up in Washington. And you? Are you a pilot?”
“A pilot?” He looked confused. “Oh, you mean, because Boone was? No, that’s not how we met. I’m an attorney. Securities claims, broker--dealer arbitrations, that sort of thing. The litigation side of things. Meaning lawsuits rather than corporate deals.”
“I know what litigators do. My dad and brother are both lawyers.”
“Your dad?” He shot me a strange look.
“My dad, meaning the man who raised me. Thomas Cashion.”
“Of course, of course. The article made it sound as though you don’t remember much about Boone and Sadie Rawson.”
“Nothing at all, unfortunately.”
“I suppose you were so young.”
“I thought being back here might jog some memories. Seeing my old house, and all that.”
“And has it worked?”
“Not so far. The newspaper archives had an old photograph of my parents, and seeing it was . . . jarring, to use your word. But I can’t say I would have recognized them.”
“Mmm. I might have a few pictures of your dad kicking around the house. I’ll have a nose through the old albums this weekend. Maybe some of us posing in our tennis whites. I’ll mail them to you, if I find any.”
“That’s kind of you.”
“And the bullet?” He lowered his voice. “Did you really not know it was there?”
I shook my head no.
“You poor girl.” He patted my hand across the white tablecloth. “What a thing to learn, after all this time. That X-ray is unbelievable. There’s no way they can operate and cut it out?”
“The doctors aren’t sure.”
“Well, if you decide you want another opinion, probably the best neurosurgeon in the Southeast is an old friend. Mike’s over at Emory now. I’d be happy to put you two in touch.”
“Thank you.”
“Just say the word. It’s no trouble. You don’t want to mess around with someone who’s not top-notch. But I assume you’re talking with good doctors up in Washington?”