Today's Reading
"We should probably knock on this one." Tom rapped his knuckles in a friendly beat.
I nodded as we waited.
No sound announced that anyone was on the other side before the door swung open.
We were greeted by a woman whose bangs were her focal point. There was so much natural bright light behind her that I couldn't make out much else.
"Delaney Nichols?" the woman asked.
"That's me. This is my husband, Tom."
She nodded at Tom. "Pleasure. I'm Ani."
"Thanks for the invite." I held it up as I spoke.
"Your name was drawn. We did nothing special for you that we didn't do for all the other winners."
Just saying those words made me think that someone had, indeed, done something above and beyond to ensure I was chosen. I wondered if she'd overheard our conversation with Bridget. I wasn't sure what to say, but Tom was on it.
"Then we feel extremely lucky," he said.
Not many people were immune to my husband's charms, but Ani seemed not to have really looked at either him or me. Her eyes were difficult to see under the long bangs.
My eyes, though, were adjusting quickly to the stark contrast, and I noticed that in the States, at least, Ani could have been a model. Almost six feet tall, reed thin, with high cheekbones, and fabulous shiny, dark hair, I doubted she would have made it two blocks down a New York City thoroughfare without being approached by at least a couple scouts, to which she might have retorted, "Why would I do something like that? I'm Ryory Bennigan's assistant and that's far better." She wouldn't be wrong.
"Come in then. Ry is busy at the moment, but he will join you in a few. You may sit there." She pointed toward two chairs pushed back against the wall right inside the door. "Do you need anything to drink?"
She asked the question with a tone that implied we would decline.
"I'm fine. Thanks."
"No, thank you," Tom added.
"Sit then." With much less bounce, Ani turned just as Bridget had and walked away.
Tom and I shared a look, this one with a conspiratorial smile. We would discuss all of this later.
There would be plenty to talk about, and we hadn't even gotten very far past the front door yet.
Just after Ani disappeared behind an opaque glass wall we were facing, another knock sounded on the door.
Irritation lined her return. Both Tom and I sent her team-player smiles, maybe hoping to let her know we were on her side.
She did not return our smiles, and we couldn't tell if she rolled her eyes. I thought she probably did.
"Delivery," the young man on the other side said when she pulled the door wide.
I leaned forward and peered to see that he was a twenty-something man in a ball cap and a dark jacket with a red stripe around one arm. He was carrying a black vinyl bag with a matching red stripe.
"What kind of delivery?" Ani asked.
"Lunch, I guess."
"Lunch?"
"Yeah. Ordered by"—he lifted the bag and looked at the receipt—"Bennigan."
"Really?"
The man sighed. "Well, I doubt I would just stop by with this big bag of food otherwise. Is there a Bennigan here?"
"You'd be surprised," Ani said as she took the bag. "Were you tipped?"
"I was. A little." He paused. "Hey, you're—"
"Thank you." Ani shut the door and then turned again and disappeared behind the wall, the big bag in her arms, the noise from her footfalls waning as she went.
Tom and I shared more raised eyebrows.
I strained to listen for voices on the other side of the wall, but I sensed that Ani had gone into another room. I heard muted words, but I couldn't understand them, though I could tell that someone was unhappy. Or maybe just surprised?
I looked at Tom, who read my silent question and shook his head. He couldn't hear either.
The voices retreated even farther away, and silence filled the air long enough for me to get a little antsy.
We could see nothing except the wall and a big window, which felt clinical and cold.
"You okay?" Tom nodded toward my now bouncing leg.
I stopped. "I'm fine. Working on my patience, as always."
"Got it." Tom nodded with a half-smile.
Just then, group noises began to build and approach again. As they got closer, it felt like we should stand up, so we did, while attempting to look casual at the same time. I didn't know where to put my hands.
Ani and an older-looking man I didn't recognize came around the wall. He wasn't Ryory Bennigan. The gentleman carried a large, zipped artist's portfolio and was dressed in clothes stereotypical of a university professor, one who'd worn the same sweater all the way through his long career. His gray hair was thick and curly, and his mustache twirled at its ends.
"Oh, hello there," he said to Tom and me. "I'm so sorry about the time I took. I simply had so much to discuss, and Mr. Bennigan was too gracious to push me along."
"Not a problem." I smiled.
This excerpt ends on page of the hardcover edition.
Monday we begin the book Death at the White Hart by Chris Chibnall.
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