The Golden Hour. Beatriz Williams

was robust, almost Roman, and yet there was something vulnerable about his profile or else the way he presented it to me. “By college,” he said, “do you mean you were at university?”

      “Yes.”

      “And this girl. She was a friend of yours?”

      I stared at his cheekbone. “We were inseparable.”

      “I see.” He turned back to me. “I found myself at the bar at the Prince George a week or two ago. Happened to catch a glimpse of a girl sitting all by herself. She was drinking a Scotch whiskey, I believe, no ice, reading a book, and her hair kept falling over her forehead, and she kept pushing it back. Eventually she looked up and glanced my way—I imagine she must have sensed me watching—and I recognized her at once. The girl from the airplane.”

      I held out my hand. “Leonora Randolph. But you can call me Lulu.”

      “Lulu. I’m Benedict.”

      “Benedict?”

      “I was named after my father. His middle name.”

      “I can’t call you Benedict.”

      He shrugged. “Then call me whatever you want.”

      HE WALKED ME DOWN GEORGE Street to the hotel. We didn’t touch, nor did we speak until we turned the corner of Bay Street and stopped. Thorpe stuck his hands in his pockets and looked toward the harbor. “Still the Prince George?” he said.

      “Still the Prince George.”

      “Sounds rather temporary.”

      “I might be looking for something a little more permanent.”

      He turned his head. “Really?”

      “Seems I’m about to enter paid employment. If all goes well.”

      “Congratulations. Splendid news.”

      “You don’t seem surprised.”

      “I might have made a few inquiries regarding your intentions here,” he said.

      I snapped my fingers. “Jack! That old so-and-so. I might’ve known.”

      “I’m afraid I can’t reveal my sources.”

      “There’s no need. I can practically smell him on you. Say …”

      Thorpe lifted an eyebrow and stared at me patiently. Behind him, the street was empty, except for the British Colonial rising brilliantly against the sky. The air smelled stickily of night blossom, of the nearby ocean, of the lingering afternoon ether of automobile exhaust. There’s a particular odor to a Nassau evening, a perfume I’ve never encountered since. I wrapped my hands around my pocketbook and said, “I’ll bet that was you, wasn’t it? That drink the other night.”

      “I haven’t the least idea what you’re talking about.”

      “Jack said you were a shy kind of fellow.”