Читать книгу The Husband Project - Leigh Michaels, Leigh Michaels - Страница 8

CHAPTER THREE

ALISON ticked items off the list in her head as she laid them out on her desk. Membership booklets to hand out at the Chicago Singles meeting, application forms for those who hadn’t already formally signed up, receipts in case anyone wanted to pay dues, notes for her brief introductory talk...

She reached for her soft leather briefcase and began to pack it. The back door banged and heels clicked on the bare wooden steps from the main floor down to Alison’s office.

“Nice little black dress,” Susannah said as she came in.

“Thanks. It’s not what I’d normally wear to the art museum on a Saturday afternoon, but I won’t have time to change before the Singles meeting.”

“I’m glad you’re not still calling it the Stupid Singles.” Susannah flung herself down on the wicker couch. “You know, I surmise you’re going to enjoy this club a whole lot more than you expect to.”

I’ll just bet you think so, Alison thought, because you don’t realize that I know about Logan’s gift certificate! The comment was the final confirmation of her suspicions that Susannah had been the source of that gift; she sounded entirely too innocent.

“Don’t get me started,” Alison said. “Sorry I’m not ready, by the way. It took longer to get everything together than I’d planned. I could have met you at the museum—there was no need for you to go out of your way to pick me up here.” .

“Oh, no. I asked you to provide moral support, and I’m going to squeeze out every drop of it I can—which includes having you walk into the Dearborn with me.”

Alison put the last of her papers in place and picked up the flat white box which contained the tiny flute player. Though she didn’t for a minute expect that Logan would show up at the meeting tonight, she might as well be prepared; she’d drop the box into the side pocket of her briefcase just in case.

The lid slipped, and the pin tumbled from its bed of white cotton onto the slick surface of Alison’s desk. Susannah swung around. “What a luscious pin! You’re going to wear it, aren’t you? It was made for that dress.”

“Don’t you think it’s a bit much for the museum?” The excuse was feeble, Alison knew, but it was all she could think of.

Susannah’s eyebrows rose. “Obviously you haven’t been there for a while, or you’d know that anything goes. It’s perfect. Want me to help you put it on?”

Great, Alison thought. Now I have to start explaining how it’s not really mine, it’s sort of a gift from Logan, but I’m giving it back...and won’t Susannah have a field day with that?

There wasn’t much choice except to explain—and Susannah wouldn’t be easily put off with less than the full story. Unless...she could just wear the thing. What would be the harm? The pin certainly wouldn’t be injured, and if she took it off the minute she was out of Susannah’s sight, Logan would never know it had been out of the box.

Coward, she told herself. But she handed Susannah the small silver figure and stood very still while it was fastened to the shoulder of her dress.

It was apparent the moment they stepped into the Dearborn Museum of Art that everyone knew the famous artist would be inspecting the damage to his work that afternoon, for the museum was as busy as Alison had ever seen it. Most of the crowd was gathered in the main gallery where the damaged painting was, to Alison’s surprise, still hanging. Few of them were looking seriously at the art, and when Susannah and Alison came in, the noise level dropped and all eyes focused on them.

On Susannah, rather. Alison knew very well that no one was paying any particular attention to her. Still, as they walked up the wide ramp into the main gallery, she felt as if every gaze in the museum was directed at the small silver flute player on her shoulder.

Guilt, she told herself, is a powerful thing.

“Perfect timing,” Susannah murmured, and just as Alison started to ask what she meant, the double doors at the back of the gallery opened and two men—the museum’s director and a Bohemian figure who could only be the famous artist—strolled in and straight across the gray-carpeted floor to the painting in question.