forty-one

We enter another room, the function of which I don’t dare guess. It’s small and utilitarian.

There’s a second door. Or it looks like one, but there’s no handle. When we reach it, Jude pushes aside a painting to reveal a panel with an LED screen. He punches in a code and that knob-free door slides open.

I laugh. “Now that is a secret room. I don’t think I’ve seen anything like that outside of spy movies.”

“Nah, if it was a real secret room, you wouldn’t see a door at all. Lennon says we should put a wall hanging over it. I say there’s not much point hiding the security panel if you can obviously see a door requiring one.”

I smile at that. The solutions fit them perfectly—Lennon wanting more creative and elaborate subterfuge, Jude arguing for candor.

Jude leads me into the room, and when I step inside, I have to laugh again.

“Oh, my God,” I say. “Is this a panic room?”

He chuckles. “Yep, they exist outside of spy movies too.”

I walk in, marveling. It’s exactly what I’ve read in books. There’s a landline phone. Food and water. Flashlights. There’s even an armchair and a couch. Jude plunks onto the sofa, reaches into the cushions, and pulls out a thick, dog-eared novel.

“It’s still here.”

I grin. “This is your reading room?”

“Privacy guaranteed. No one ever figured it out.”

I take the book. “War and Peace?” I check the bookmark, which is past the three-quarter mark. “Impressive.”

“Far more impressive if I don’t admit how long it took to get that far. It’s more a goal than a pleasure, as you might have guessed by the fact I ‘accidentally’ left it behind.”

“Well, you’re farther than I am, and I’ve been working on it for three years.”

He smiles at that and finally relaxes, tucking the book into the cushions and then saying, “So this is my hidey-hole, and if the party gets unbearable, you are free to use it.”

“I’d need the code for that.”

“It’s 252423. But if you escape back here, you need to read the next chapter and secretly move my bookmark.”

“It’s not a secret if you tell me to do it.”

“I’ll conveniently forget. Like I’ve managed to forget half the damn novel.”

“Les Misérables is almost as impressively long and far more entertaining.”

“I know.”

We share a smile, and I’m turning to go when I see a pistol hanging behind the door.

“Yep, a fully furnished panic room,” he says. “Not that Lennon or I have the faintest idea how to use that. Like martial arts, shooting and hunting were not on our mother’s list of acceptable sports.”

I look at the gun and remember Lennon skinning the rabbit for me.

This city boy is still a Kentucky boy.

I open my mouth to comment and then shut it. Jude’s already worried, and this doesn’t add anything new.

As we head into the hall, I say, “Did you mention a bathroom pit stop earlier? I’m trying not to think what that helmet did to my hair.”

He smiles. “Yours looks fine, but I suspect the lack of a helmet totally ruined any work I did taming this.” He tugs a curl of his hair. “It’s just down here.”

We tidy up in a bathroom that is roughly quadruple the size of my bedroom. Jude’s mood stays high, and that calms me, and as we walk down the halls, we’re comparing our must-read lists of classic literature. I’ve always been rather proud of mine, along with the fact that I’m often the only person who has ever checked half of them out of the Reeve’s End library. Jude’s list puts mine to shame, in both what he wants to read and what he’s finished. I’m telling him I want recommendations, and he’s promising me that and—

“Jude,” a voice says.

We look up and…

We’re in the party. There’s no grand entrance. I’d never even noticed we walked in, and from Jude’s expression, he hadn’t either. We were too busy talking, and now we’re about ten paces into a room filled with partygoers who’ve stopped what they’re doing to watch the prodigal son return.

A woman makes her way over, the crowd parting for her. I’ve seen photos of Elysse Bishop. I know she’s not what I would expect. In movies, the wives of powerful men seem to come in two varieties: the well-dressed and commanding first wife or the glamorous and young second wife. Parting that crowd with her very presence, Mrs. Bishop is the very definition of commanding. With dark blond hair and hazel eyes, she wears a tasteful and conservative gown that still makes her, quite possibly, the most beautiful woman in the room. From everything I’ve heard, I expect a chill. While I don’t sense warmth, her expression reminds me of Jude—absolute control rather than arctic frost.

She puts one arm around Jude’s shoulders and pulls him into an embrace that is neither stiff nor overtly maternal.

“It’s good to see you,” she says, and her voice is just loud enough that others can hear while quiet enough to seem as if the words are for Jude only. A woman who does nothing impulsively, nothing by accident, every move considered and measured. Like her son.

She pulls back and when she looks at me, I try not to quail. Should I have worn more makeup? Less? Is my hem too high? Too low? Is my dress too young for me? Too old? Is—

“And this must be…,” she prompts.

I open my mouth to answer, but Jude beats me to it, and I remember that it’s correct for others to introduce us. At least it is in Victorian novels. Which may still apply in this house.

“Winter,” he says. “Winter Crane. And this is my mother, Elysse Bishop.”

“Winter,” she says. “That’s an interesting name.”

Not pretty. Not nice. Interesting.

I’m reading too much into that response. I know I am. I can’t help it.

“Oh, it’s a lovely name,” says an elderly lady, moving forward from the crowd. She gives me a smile not unlike the old woman’s in the restroom—sympathetic and encouraging.

“I know a Summer and an Autumn,” says the elderly man with her. “But not a Winter. Always nice to have parents with imagination.”

“So, Winter,” Jude’s mother cuts in. “Are you a college student yet?”

I know I look young for my age. Is that what she’s suggesting—that I’m too young to be with Jude? Or that I’m another dropout he met in the city?

Jude opens his mouth to reply, but I say, “I’m in my senior year, getting ready to submit my applications.”

“Where do you plan to go? Penn? Cornell?”

Ivy League schools. She says them as if they’re the only possible choices. Waiting to see me blush and stammer a response? Pretend I can afford them?

“I’ve applied to Penn,” I say. “But that will take a bigger scholarship than I dare hope for. A state school will do for my undergrad. I’ll save Penn or Stanford for med school, though Johns Hopkins ranks higher on my list. I know the connections you make at Ivy League schools are important, but personally, I feel the program is better at Hopkins.”

Mrs. Bishop doesn’t respond. I’ve thrown her, just a little. She recovers quickly with, “Medical school? That’s quite a goal.”

“I’ve been working for a family physician for almost five years now. It’s not as much experience as I’d like, but it’s helped me know it’s the career I want.”

The elderly woman says, “That’s the way to do it. So many young people pick a career like they’re choosing a dress from a shop window. You need to try it on for size first. So, tell me, Winter, do you have a specialty in mind? Family medicine?”

And with that, the elderly couple engage me in conversation, effectively shutting out Mrs. Bishop. She murmurs, “I’d like a word,” to Jude, but he replies in that same voice she’d used earlier, loud enough to be heard but not so loud that it seems intentional, “Later. I don’t want to abandon my guest,” and I swear the elderly woman’s lips twitch in a smile. Mrs. Bishop takes her leave, and I exhale as she departs.

It isn’t until I’ve been talking to the elderly couple for about five minutes that Jude remembers to introduce them…as his grandparents. His father’s parents. I’m actually glad that introduction came late, because by then I was relaxed enough not to be intimidated. They talk to both of us for a while, and I notice they’re careful not to ask Jude what he’s been up to. I know from dinner that he has a noncommittal answer ready—working, exploring his options—but I think he’s glad not to need it for his grandparents.

We circulate a bit. I try not to gawk at the house, at the people. At one point, I hear a laugh and it reminds me of Edie, and I think of what she would have said about this place, this party, which only makes me anxious to get through it, get to Lennon’s room, keep investigating. But we can’t rush out or people will notice.

As we circulate, we catch a glimpse of his father across the room. I recognize Peter Bishop from his photos too. He’s not as strikingly attractive as his wife but he’s handsome, with graying dark hair and blue eyes. When he sees Jude, I expect a polite nod, maybe even a distant one, given how Mrs. Bishop has implied Jude’s behavior upsets him. Instead, those blue eyes light up, and he grins and lifts a finger to say he’ll be over in a moment. I glance at Jude, whose gaze shoots to the buffet table, as if looking for an escape.

Mr. Bishop starts making his way toward us, his face still alight as his long strides cover the distance. A woman steps into his path, motioning to a man at her side, as if wanting to make an introduction. The congressman hesitates, his gaze lifting over the man’s shoulder to Jude, as if he wants to make an excuse and continue on his way. But it seems important and he makes a face for Jude, one that reminds me of Lennon, a faint grimace that wryly says Duty calls, and he motions for us to stay right where we are.

“Let’s get a drink,” Jude says. “They won’t fuss with ID.”

I shake my head. “I’m fine.”

“Just because I don’t drink…”

“I only do if I can’t say no without being rude. But your dad seemed to want to talk to you.”

“He’ll find us.”

As we get our drinks, he says, “I’m going to grab a plate of food, too. You?”

I chuckle and shake my head. “I’m still feeling dinner. Go get something. I’ll hang out in that very cozy corner over there.”

He still hesitates, and I have to shoo him off. Then I take my spot in the aforementioned corner and wait while Jude fills a small plate from the buffet. As he’s turning to come back, an older man puts a hand on his shoulder and traps him in what doesn’t look like will be a short conversation.

I glance around. Should I keep standing here or join Jude?

“It looks as if my son has been waylaid,” a voice says, and I turn to see Jude’s father walking toward me, smiling. He extends a hand. “Peter Bishop. And, yes, I’m sure you figured that out, but I’ll say it anyway.”

“Winter Crane,” I say, shaking his hand.

When he catches me glancing toward Jude, he says, “Don’t worry. He’ll be back the second he can escape. I’m sure he doesn’t want to be pulled away, but my son is nothing if not conscientious about his responsibilities. Perhaps a little too conscientious. And a little too responsible.”

His lips quirk in a smile, and I can’t help returning it. I know he’s a politician, so I expect him to be engaging, but I expect it to be false charm, a little smarmy. Yet there’s a warmth there that reminds me of Lennon—even when you know he’s going out of his way to be charming, it doesn’t feel phony.

“Did I hear this is your first date?” he asks.

“We’ve known each other awhile, but this is our first time ‘out’ together.”

Mr. Bishop talks to me for a few minutes. Like his parents, he doesn’t pry, just expresses an interest while skirting around specifics.

“I also hear you’re applying for scholarships,” he says. “I know the state ones can be complicated, so if you have any questions or problems, contact my office. I’ll give them a heads-up to expect a call.”

“Thank you, sir.”

My gaze slides toward Jude, who’s now talking to an older couple.

“Yes, everyone wants to speak to him,” Mr. Bishop says. “Hoping for grist to feed the gossip mill, find out exactly what scandalous things he’s been up to. Which I know are not scandalous at all. He just…” A shadow passes behind Mr. Bishop’s eyes. “I don’t know how much he’s discussed with you.”

“Not much.”

“If you can get him to talk, please do. I’d like to think he has someone to speak to. I’d love to do it myself, but…” His fingers tighten around his wineglass. “I hope he’s making a good impression. I know Jude can seem distant, but he has a good heart. Possibly the best I know. That doesn’t always make life easy. A good heart plus a sharp mind means a very busy head and a very deep conscience.”

A rueful smile, another hint of Lennon, as he lifts the glass. “Yes, this is actually my first, and I’m already probably not making any sense. I’m much better at sticking to the issues. Ask me my views on needle exchanges and I’ll do a much better job.”

I smile. “What’s your view on needle exchanges, sir?”

He laughs. “Oh, you’d better not ask unless you really want to know, or you’ll get a half-hour lecture on balancing public health concerns with the need to get prescription opioids off our streets. I’ll just say that I’m in favor of the exchange centers. I’m also in favor of my son, as fine dating material, in case you couldn’t tell.”

“I could. And you did make sense—I know what you mean about Jude, and I agree.”

His face lights up again, as if I’ve paid his son the greatest compliment. Then he says, “All right. I’ll stop monopolizing you and go wrench your date from the clutches of the busybodies. In fact, I’ll suggest he take a break and show you the conservatory. You can wait for him in there.” He gives directions and then heads off to free Jude.