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And my first instinct actuallyisto lie, to say,Nothing. I mean, why should Kane be apprised of details about a one-night stand I had over a decade ago? But I quickly switch gears, realizing that being less than forthcoming with him could backfire somehow, screw up my chances of walking away with the promised prize.
“Is there any chance you have access to a picture of Christopher Whaley when he was younger?” I ask. “From around a decade ago, or a little longer? Because—because I once briefly knew someone with the nickname C.J.”
Kane nods slowly, clearly processing this development, and then looks up to the right, as if trying to remember. A second later he slides a phone from his pants pocket.
“Believe it or not, I do have a photo of him from that far back,”he says, beginning to scroll through. I notice he’s wearing a wedding band, an extra-thick one. Is that supposed to show that he’s more committed than most guys?
“You were friends?”
“More what you’d call acquaintances. We both grew up here in Scarsdale and by chance ended up going to the same college, and though we weren’t ever close, we were in the same extended group. This is from a regatta a bunch of us sailed in about fifteen years ago.”
He finally stops dragging and flicking his thumb over the screen, an indication he’s found what he’s looking for. “The photo’s a little out of focus, but it captures him pretty well. He’s at the end on the right.”
He slides the phone faceup across the table to me, and I take a look. There are five guys in the photo, standing on a weathered dock and dressed in shorts and T-shirts or polo shirts. All are in docksiders, the brown leather boat shoes I learned in college that preppy dudes favor. My eyes dart immediately to the guy at the end, the one with thick, sandy-colored hair and a sly smile. Though my memory takes a couple of seconds to catch up, I soon realize beyond any doubts that it’s him.C.J.The man I slept with that night.
But this whole thing is making even less sense to me now. Why in the world would Christopher Whaley leave me anything? We’d spent fewer than twelve hours in each other’s company and never connected again. I hadn’t even known his last name, nor he mine, though he obviously figured it out. Had he rummaged through my purse when I was sleeping?
I glance back over at Kane. “Yes, this is the C.J. I met. I only knew his nickname.”
Kane maintains a neutral expression. “Do you mind my asking the circumstances?” he says.
I hesitate again but decide that it’s probably smart to be forthcoming. “It was about a dozen years ago. We met in the bar of thehotel where he was staying during a business trip and spent the night together.”
Once again, Kane doesn’t bat an eye. He’s probably assumed there was some kind of carnal connection between Whaley and me, and given the way I just summed it up, he might even wonder if I used to be one of those college-girl escort types. But he knows better than to slut-shame me in this day and age, I feel sure.
“And you’re saying it was only a single night?”
“Yes—that’s why I didn’t recognize him from the photo in the obituary. And also because he looked so different back then with all his hair and without the glasses.”
“But... you must have had some kind of contact with him after that night. By phone, or mail, or something?”
“No, none at all.”
Kane tilts his head slightly, looking skeptical.
“I swear I never spoke or corresponded with him again,” I add. “Just because I slept with him didn’t mean we were destined to be pen pals.”
I pass the phone back to him. He seems poised to ask another question but is interrupted when the door to the conference suddenly swings open, and the receptionist enters. She murmurs something in his ear, eliciting a nod, and immediately departs.
“Caroline Whaley is here and is eager to get the meeting started,” Kane tells me. “I’m having her brought in now, and you and I can continue our discussion afterward.”
He rises to his feet. Seconds later the receptionist opens the door again and stretches out her arm to wave Caroline Whaley into the room. She’s in her midseventies, I guess, and her appearance is a surprise. When Kane mentioned she’d be joining us, I’d immediately imagined an older woman with gray hair, perhaps heavyset, and dressed in a skirt and sweater set, a look I’ve seen on older suburban women in West Hartford—but how shortsighted of me. Thiswoman is super stylish and arresting. Her short strawberry-blond hair is brushed sleekly back from her forehead and tucked behind her ears, and though none of her features are themselves remarkable, they’ve come together to create a striking face punctuated by lips she’s painted a bright, fiery red. She’s wearing slim navy pants, a crisp cornflower-blue shirt—with the collar popped self-assuredly—and a chunky beaded necklace in the same shade of blue as the shirt.
But despite her chic look, it’s clear she’s grief-stricken. The muscles in her face are taut, as if she’s been trying for days, including right now, to maintain composure.
Kane introduces us to each other as Ms. Moore and Mrs. Whaley, and I do an awkward half rise out of my chair.
“Please don’t get up,” Caroline Whaley says in a husky voice. Her tone isn’t what you’d call warm, but there nothing’s hostile in it either. Still, I feel my unease flare a little, and I have to remind myself that this is as big as the group will get. Three people, that’s all.
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” I tell her. It’s feeble, of course, but I know from my own experience of grief that nothing I say would make a difference, anyway. Her eyes, I notice, are a very deep blue, the color of wet slate, and I suddenly recall being struck by C.J.’s eyes. I think they might have been the exact same shade.
“Thank you,” Caroline says. As she settles into the chair across from me, a scent wafts off her, something both fruity and woodsy. “And I’m sorry to rush you two along, but I do need to get to another appointment.”
“No problem, we were just finishing up,” Kane says, sounding eager to please. “I was explaining to Ms. Moore why Chris thought it important for you to be here, that it’s key for you to learn where things stand.”
“Yes, exactly,” she says to Kane. Abruptly her head swivels in my direction and she meets my eyes. “But before we start, Ms. Moore, I hope you’ll be courteous enough to answer a few questions for me.”
“Uh, I’ll try,” I say, immediately flustered.
