Free The One That Got Away by Leigh Himes Page A

bathroom.
    The server directed me toward “the main hall,” but the promised powder room proved elusive. I looked around and eventually made my way toward the back, where the light from the large chandelier didn’t quite reach, making it hard to see. I tried a few doors, but each glass knob led to a closet, a long back porch, and an even darker stairway, respectively.
    I spun around and tiptoed back to the front, confused. Maybe this wasn’t the main hallway? Maybe there was an even bigger, grander hall somewhere else? One with more ancestral oil paintings, bigger black-and-white marble tiles, and an even taller wood-paneled staircase?
    Suddenly, a portrait underneath the stairs swung toward me, the van Holt ancestor it depicted coming at me like a Scooby-Doo ghost. I gasped and stepped back, making room, then steadied myself. From behind the painting stepped a tiny white-haired clergyman in a dark suit and collar, his eyes bright and blue. Seeing mein the hall, he held open the door from which he had just emerged and gave a little courtly bow: “It’s all yours, madam.”
    “Oh,
that’s
the bathroom?” I asked. “I… I forgot where it was.”
    “These old houses are a lot like churches. Hidden doors. Secret hallways. Little Scots that jump out from under the stairs.” He winked and gave me a mischievous grin.
    “Well, thank you for the warning,” I said, laughing. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
    I snuck around him and into the hidden bathroom under the stairs, ducking my head to avoid the slanted ceiling. When I came back out, the man was still there, gazing up at a painting of a shepherd fighting off a snarling wolf.
    He felt me walk up beside him, then held out his arm without turning toward me. “My mother told me a lady should never enter a room by herself,” he said. “May I escort you?”
    “Funny, my mother will
only
enter a room by herself,” I replied, thinking how Roberta always preferred all eyes on her. “But yes, thank you.” I put my hand on his arm and we rejoined the party, finding a quiet space near the window. He introduced himself: “I’m Father Ferguson. I was hoping to speak with your husband, but he’s been occupied for the last hour. Though it’s quite possible he’s avoiding me.”
    “Oh? Why would he do that?” I asked, intrigued.
    “He knows why.”
    “Well, why don’t you fill me in?”
    “Your husband promised to speak with his uncle in the state senate to see if we could help my little community center qualify for state funding,” he explained. “But that was before he was running for Congress.”
    “Well, my husband’s got a lot on his mind,” I said, remarking how I’d just referred to Alex as “my husband” so easily. “Maybe he plans to help you after the election?”
    “Maybe,” he said. “But I’m running out of time. And money.” He sighed, then sat down on the edge of a sofa and patted the space beside him. “Perhaps
you
would like to come to the center and see what we’re all about?”
    “I would love to, but we have campaign events scheduled every single second from now until next Tuesday,” I told him in a tone that I hoped sounded as elegant as Mirabelle’s. “I’m sure you understand.”
Plus, I am not sure how much longer I’ll be living in this dreamworld.
    “But we’re only five minutes from Center City. It’s the Holy Rosary Settlement House on Pine and Fifty-Eighth.”
    “Holy Rosary?” I asked. “You do know this is a
Presbyterian
event?”
    “Well, we won’t tell anyone, will we?” he said, holding his finger to his lips. “You’d be amazed the places this collar can take you.” Then quieter, in a confiding tone: “Besides, I’ve never been afraid of the Calvinists. They’ve got it easy. It’s suffering, not salvation, that toughens us. Right?”
    “I wouldn’t know.”
    “Oh, for some reason I thought you were Catholic.”
    “Why would you think that?”
    “Just a feeling.”
    He was sort of right.