The answer unsettled her because it sounded deeply thought out, not merely charming.
When she hung up the receiver, Annie was already watching her from the carpet. "Was that him?"
"Yes."
"Are we going somewhere tomorrow?"
Lena nodded once. "To talk about you."
Annie considered that. "Can I wear the blue dress again?"
Lena almost said no. The blue dress had become far too tied to that single night, too full of strange light and grand promises. But Annie asked it so simply that refusing felt like fear pretending to be wisdom. "If you want."
Annie smiled faintly and returned to her layout of crayons.
---
The next afternoon, Lena took extra care getting ready, though she would have denied it if anyone had asked. She pressed Annie's blue dress again, fixed the ribbons in her braids, and chose her own cleanest dark slacks and the cream blouse she usually saved for church meetings. She wore no jewelry except the tiny gold cross her mother had left her years ago.
The Madison Street Art Studio sat squarely between a neighborhood pharmacy and a hardware store, in a part of downtown that had not yet decided whether it was rising or falling. Its front windows displayed student charcoal paintings, flyers for youth pottery classes, and a faded poster about music therapy that reassured Lena far more than marble walls would have.
Inside, the studio smelled faintly of dust, old wood, and acrylic paint. Folding chairs lined one wall, a piano stood in the far corner, and wide mirrors reflected the late afternoon light. It was beautiful in a practical, unpretentious way—built entirely for use rather than display.
Charles Whitmore was already there. He was not wearing a tuxedo now; he wore a charcoal wool suit, no tie, his white shirt open at the collar. It should have made him seem more ordinary, but it did not. Some men carried power like an invisible cologne; it stayed on them no matter what they wore.