Chapter 17: Monday, Nine A.M.

Aimée's POV

I had changed doctors at eleven on Sunday night, from the ferry.

My old doctor had delivered half of Beacon Hill. She played bridge with Eleanor, and she sent Preston the portal link.

Mireille had given me a new name, a woman in Newton who had never heard of the Haverfords.

The waiting room was small and yellow, with a fish tank and a rack of old magazines.

Rémy sat beside me with his hat on his knee.

He had driven all night from the Hyannis ferry, and he had not said ten words since.

He didn't need to. He had put a thermos of coffee in my hand at the dock and a ginger candy in my pocket.

At eight-fifty a door opened in the hall.

Preston came in.

He was wearing yesterday's blazer, and his hair was flat on one side from the floor.

He looked at me, and then at Rémy, and he stopped.

"Aimée," he said. "I found it. Your friend at the old office told me, finally. I'm not late."

"It's ten to nine," I said.

"I'm not late," he said again, helplessly.

His hand was shaking. Something small and soft was held in it.

It was the recipe card, in her own faded blue ink.

"I don't know why I brought it," he said. "I thought if I had it I'd have something to give you."

Rémy stood.

"I'll be in the truck," he said, in French, to me alone. "Say the word and I come back."

"Merci," I said.

He nodded to Preston, who did not meet his eyes, and he went out.

Preston stood in front of me.

I looked at him a long time.

"Sit down," I said.

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