Chapter 7: The Invitation

Ruth had watched the video of Newbury Street four times before I got home, and Ansel had watched it twice.

They were both at the kitchen table when I walked in.

"A hundred and four feet," Ansel said, without looking up. "You paced it."

"By the pavement squares."

"That's the most unromantic thing I've ever seen."

"It's a court exhibit now," Ruth said happily. "You should have worn a tape measure on your neck like Clay."

I dropped into a chair, and Ruth put a plate in front of me.

Hugh's message was already pinned on the corkboard by the phone, copied out in her green marker: a name by tomorrow night.

"I'm not worried about the name," Ansel said.

"You should be."

"I'd be worried if you were the one he was looking for."

He turned his phone face down on the table and looked at me.

"You asked me on the phone about the wedding."

"I did."

"I owe you that now."

Ruth stood to put the kettle on, then stopped halfway and sat down again.

Ansel reached into the bag at his feet and took out a cream envelope.

He laid it on the table between the soup bowls.

The card inside was thick and heavy, with gold edges and a ribbon.

It was the same invitation Ruth had on her mantel, with a different name written in calligraphy across the top.

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