Homeport

least two hours. Elizabeth’s been very good to me, and this was important to her. Miranda and I have remained somewhat cautious friends, and I didn’t want to leave the impression that her work didn’t matter. But I wanted to go and I didn’t think anyone would notice by that time.”
    “So you went looking for Hawthorne.”
    “Yes. He only knew a handful of people there, and he’s not a very social man. We’d agreed to leave around ten-thirty, so I tried to find him. I expected to find him huddled in a corner, or with his nose up against some map. Then I thought he might have gone upstairs, to the library. He wasn’t there. Ah . . . I’m sorry, I keep losing my train of thought.”
    “That’s okay. You take your time.”
    She closed her eyes. “I wandered around for a while, and I saw the light in Miranda’s office. I started to go back down, but then I heard his voice. I heard him shout something, something like, ‘I’ve had enough.’”
    Her fingers began to tug at the sheet in agitated little plucks. “I walked over. There were voices. But I couldn’t hear what they were saying.”
    “Was it a man’s voice, or a woman’s?”
    “I don’t know.” Wearily, she rubbed at the center of her forehead. “I just don’t know. It was very low, only a murmur really. I stood there a minute, not quite sure what to do. I suppose I thought he and Miranda might have come up to discuss something, and I didn’t want to interrupt.”
    “Miranda?”
    “It was her office, so I just assumed. I thought maybe I’d just go back alone, and then . . . I heard the shots. They were so loud, so sudden. I was so shocked I didn’t think. I ran inside. I think I called out. I— It’s just not clear.”
    “That’s all right. Just tell me what you remember.”
    “I saw Richard, lying over the desk. The blood everywhere. The smell of it and what must have been gunpowder. Like a burn on the air. I think I screamed. I must have screamed, then I turned. I was going to run. I’m so ashamed, I was going to run and leave him there. Someone—something hit me.”
    Gingerly, she reached around to press at the bandage on the back of her head. “I just remember this flash of light inside my head, then nothing at all. Nothing until I woke up in the ambulance.”
    She was crying openly now and tried to reach the box of tissues on the table next to the bed. Cook handed it to her, waited until she’d wiped her face.
    “Do you remember how long you looked for him?”
    “Ten or fifteen minutes, I think. I don’t really know.”
    “When you went into the office, you didn’t see anyone?”
    “Only Richard—” She closed her eyes so that tears squeezed through her lashes. “Only Richard, and now he’s dead.”

twenty-nine
    I t was nearly dawn when Annie opened the door and found Andrew in the hall. He was sheet-pale, his eyes heavy with shadows. He was still in his tux, the tie loose around his neck, the first stud missing. The snowy shirt was marred by creases and blood.
    “Elise?”
    “She’s going to be all right. They’ll keep her for observation, but she was lucky. Concussion, a few stitches. There’s no sign of intracranial bleeding.”
    “Come inside, Andrew. Sit down.”
    “I needed to come, to tell you.”
    “I know. Come on in. I’ve already made coffee.”
    She was bundled in a robe, and had washed the makeup from her face, but he saw how tired her eyes were. “Have you been to bed?”
    “I gave it a shot. It didn’t work. I’ll make us some breakfast.”
    He closed the door, watched her walk the short distance to the kitchen and open the undersized refrigerator. She took out eggs, bacon, a frying pan. She poured coffee into two thick blue mugs.

    The early light played through the narrow windows, made patterns on the floor. The room smelled of coffee and carnations.
    Her feet were bare.
    She laid bacon in the black iron skillet and soon the room was full of its scent and sound. Solid, Sunday morning sounds, he thought. Easy homey scents.
    “Annie.”
    “Sit down, Andrew. You’re asleep on your feet.”
    “Annie.” He took her by the shoulders, turned her around. “I needed to go with Elise tonight.”
    “Of course you did.”
    “Don’t interrupt. I needed to go, to make sure she was all right. She was my wife once, so I owed her that. I didn’t handle the marriage well, and handled the divorce less well. I thought about that while I was waiting for the doctor to come out and