Adrienne Warren had crossed half the Wycliffe Club’s dining room before anyone tried to stop her.
That was farther than she expected.
The club occupied a limestone townhouse overlooking Commonwealth Avenue in Boston’s Back Bay, a building so carefully preserved that even the brass elevator buttons looked older than most of the people pressing them. Dark walnut covered the walls of the main dining room. Small shaded lamps glowed against white tablecloths, and portraits of dead men in evening clothes watched current members eat food none of those men would have recognized.
Adrienne wore a fitted dark green dress with elbow-length sleeves, low black heels, and small gold earrings. Her hair was braided close to her scalp before falling into a long braid down her back. At forty-nine, she had spent enough years entering expensive rooms to know when people were looking without turning her head.
Several people looked.
That did not bother her.
The man who stepped directly into her path did.
“Excuse me.”
Adrienne stopped.
He was perhaps sixty-six, heavyset, silver-haired, and wearing a navy suit with a bright red tie. His face carried the pleasant confidence of someone accustomed to speaking before deciding whether conversation was necessary.
Adrienne recognized him immediately.
Richard Bellamy.
Former president of the Wycliffe Club.
Current member of its real-estate committee.
Son of Arthur Bellamy, whose name appeared on a bronze plaque in the downstairs lobby beneath the words PRESERVATION CHAIRMAN, 1987–1999.
Richard did not recognize Adrienne.
That became obvious almost immediately.
“The private luncheon is through the south corridor,” he said.
Adrienne looked toward the doorway behind him.
“I’m not attending a luncheon.”
Richard smiled.
“Staff briefing, then?”
“No.”
His smile remained, but the warmth left it.
“The kitchen entrance is downstairs.”
Adrienne stared at him.
There it was.
He heard himself too.
Not enough to stop.
Perhaps enough to revise.
“I only mean this dining room is restricted to members and invited guests.”
Adrienne looked around.
“Yes.”
“You’re aware?”
“Very.”
Richard glanced toward the maître d’ station.
No one stood there.
The club was between lunch and dinner service, but several members were still drinking coffee at corner tables. A private board session was scheduled upstairs, so the building remained active.
Richard looked back at Adrienne.
“May I ask who invited you?”
“You may.”
He waited.
Adrienne did not continue.
His forehead creased.
“And?”
“I said you may ask.”
Richard’s smile vanished.
“I am asking.”
Adrienne’s expression remained calm.
“That doesn't mean I’m required to explain myself to you.”
A man at the nearest table lowered his newspaper.
Richard noticed.
The social stakes changed.
He lowered his voice.
“Ma’am, I’m trying to prevent an awkward situation.”
Adrienne almost smiled.
“That seems optimistic.”
Richard stared.
“Do you know where you are?”
“Yes.”
“The Wycliffe Club.”
“Yes.”
“Members bring guests through the front desk.”
“I came through the front desk.”
“Whose guest are you?”
Adrienne looked at him.
“I’m not.”
Richard exhaled through his nose.
The answer seemed to settle something in his mind.
“Then there has been a misunderstanding.”
Adrienne’s eyes narrowed.
“About?”
“Access.”
“No.”
“You cannot simply walk into a private dining room.”
“I didn't.”
“Ma’am.”
“My name is Adrienne.”
Richard hesitated.
“Adrienne.”
“Good.”
He tried again.
“Adrienne, the club has rules.”
“I know.”
“Then you understand why I’m asking you to step back into the lobby while we find whoever admitted you.”
She stared at him.
“Do you work here?”
Richard’s face changed.
“No.”
“Security?”
“No.”
“Management?”