"When did you take these?"
"The summer I left for Oxford."
"Why?"
"Because," he says quietly. "Because I always loved watching you play out the windows. And I couldn't imagine getting any work done in an office without them."
"They're not windows, though."
Dad smiles. "You're not the only one who copes by imagining things," he says, and Hadley laughs. "Sometimes I like to pretend I'm back home again."
Charlotte, who has been watching them with a look of great delight, turns her attention back to the computer, where she zooms in on the photo so that they can see a close-up of the frames. "You have a beautiful garden," she says, pointing at the tiny pixelated lavender bushes on the screen.
Hadley moves her finger a few centimeters over, to the actual window, which looks out over a small yard with a few rows of flowering plants. "You do, too," she says, and Charlotte smiles.
"I hope you'll get to see it for yourself one day soon."
Hadley glances back at Dad, who gives her shoulder a squeeze.
"Me, too," she says.
16
1:48 PM Eastern Standard Time
6:48 PM Greenwich Mean Time
Later, toward the end of the cocktail hour, the doors to the ballroom are thrown open, and Hadley pauses just inside, her eyes wide. Everything is silver and white, with lavender flowers arranged in oversized glass vases on the tables. There are ribbons on the backs of the chairs, and a four-tiered cake topped with a tiny bride and groom. The crystals on the chandeliers seem to catch the light from the silverware, from the gleaming plates and the tiny glowing candles and the brassy instruments of the band, which will sit propped in their stands until later, when it's time for the dancing to begin. Even the photographer, who has walked in just ahead of Hadley, lowers her camera to look around with an air of approval.
There's a string quartet playing softly off to one side, and the waiters in bow ties and tails seem almost to glide through the room with their trays of champagne. Monty winks at Hadley when he catches her taking a glass.
"Not too many," he says, and she laughs.
"Don't worry, my dad will be down to tell me the same thing soon enough."
Dad and Charlotte are still upstairs, waiting to make their grand entrance, and Hadley has spent the entire cocktail hour answering questions and making small talk. Everyone seems to have a story about America, how they're dying to see the Empire State Building (does she go there often?), or planning a big trip to the Grand Canyon (can she recommend things to do there?), or have a cousin who just moved to Portland (does she maybe know him?).
When they ask about her trip to London, they seem disappointed that she hasn't seen Buckingham Palace or visited the Tate Modern or even shopped along Oxford Street. Now that she's here, it's hard to explain why she chose to come for just the weekend, though only yesterday—only this morning, really—it had seemed important that she get in and out as fast as possible, like she was robbing a bank, like she was fleeing for her life.
An older man who turns out to be the head of her dad's department at Oxford asks about her flight over.
"I missed it, actually," she tells him. "By four minutes. But I caught the next one."
"What bad luck," he says, running a hand over his whitened beard. "Must have been quite an ordeal."
Hadley smiles. "It wasn't so bad."
