A Nantucket Wedding(71)
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Jane was in her office at the law firm, but she couldn’t concentrate on her work because she was so angry at Scott. Why wouldn’t he answer his phone? How childish! In the back of her mind, a small worry fluttered its wings like a trapped moth, but she refused to give in to any fear that something might have happened to him. He was a careful climber. And a very stubborn man.
Just before noon, her cellphone buzzed. The number displayed had a 44 followed by too many digits. Was that the prefix for Wales? She reached for her phone.
“May I please speak with Mrs. Jane Hudson, please?” The voice was unfamiliar.
“This is she,” Jane said, a chill of dread racing through her.
“This is Derfel Aberfa. I’m the liaison officer for the Llanberis Mountain Rescue League.”
“Mountain rescue? What’s happened? Is Scott all right?”
“A hiker on Mount Snowdon found Scott Hudson’s cellphone near the Crib Goch path. Another hiker reported talking with him earlier today on the path. Mr. Hudson told him he was headed for the summit. Where the phone was found, and the fact that it was shattered, indicates that Mr. Hudson might have fallen. We could access some information from the phone but it won’t send or receive calls.”
“Maybe he went back to the hotel, or to buy a new phone?”
“Your husband told Mr. Davies, the hiker who spoke with him, that he was staying at the resort Portmeirion. We’ve called, and he has a room, but he was not there. Someone went to check. We have left him a message on his room phone. The Llanberis Mountain Rescue League has begun a search. On Portmeirion’s records, you are listed as his emergency contact. Would you have any idea what color shirt or jumper Mr. Hudson might be wearing?”
Jane’s mind froze. Oh, Lord, what kind of wife was she? Then, in a rush, she knew. “Scott is a fairly experienced hiker. We’ve read about Mount Snowdon and how cold it can be toward the summit. I’m sure he would be wearing a navy blue fleece jacket, and a blue wool cap with the New York Yankees logo. I think he would have a backpack with him with water and trail mix.”
“Good. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.” Mr. Aberfa paused. “Will you be able to come to Wales?”
“Yes, yes, I’ll get the first plane I can.”
“Your best bet is to fly into Manchester rather than London. You can take the train to Bangor. That’s faster and safer than renting a car, especially if you aren’t accustomed to driving on the left side of the road.”
“Yes, I’ll do that. Thank you for the information.”
“Is this the number where you can be contacted?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll have further communications,” Derfel Aberfa said.
“Thank you.”
They disconnected. Jane sent emails to her coworkers, grabbed her purse, and took a cab home. She hurried to the closet, reaching to the top shelf for her rolling suitcase. She set it on the bed, unzipped it, and opened her dresser drawer, taking a handful of panties and tossing them in the small suitcase.
“No, stupid,” she told herself, and ignoring the bag, she took her laptop from the top of the dresser onto her bed. Sitting cross-legged in front of it, she searched for the earliest flight she could get to Manchester from New York. It would take an hour to get to Kennedy, and an hour, more or less, to get through security. She booked a flight on British Airways. She raced into the bathroom and brushed her teeth and found the travel kit she always had waiting. She tossed that in the suitcase with socks and a shirt and a sweater, and then she thought that Scott would need clean clothes, too, although of course he had some still at his hotel. She organized her purse, remembered to get her passport from her home office desk, and pulled on a light cashmere sweater. It was still too hot to need the warmth, but she needed the sense of comfort. She hurried out to the street and flagged down a cab.
* * *
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David had asked Alison to come into his office to go over all the wedding details with Heather, so Monday morning Alison chose her most elegant summer dress, a simple dark blue linen sheath with cap sleeves and a high mandarin collar. While she liked Heather, she was always slightly overwhelmed by her reserved and formal manner. Heather was in her fifties, charming, with the kind of short blond hairstyle made popular by Princess Diana. When they’d first met, she’d worried that David’s assistant might harbor romantic designs on him. David assured her this was not the case. Heather was happily married to Cecil Willet, a surgeon at Mass General.
* * *
—
David had gone into the office early, so Alison drove her own car along the crowded eight-lane racetrack that was Route 128. The English Garden Creams general management offices were housed in a handsome brick and glass high-rise near Natick. The products were made in the larger, lower brick building situated on a winding road behind the main offices. Alison found a parking space beneath a shady tree and walked along the brick pathway surrounded by blooming shrubbery to the main door. She gave her name to the receptionist at the tall desk in the large and gorgeous lobby, and took the elevator to the top floor.
She stepped off the elevator, walked down the hall, and stepped into another receptionist’s office. Immediately Heather came from her glassed-in office, two large and beautiful dogs by her side. Today she wore a simple lavender linen dress and a string of pearls. Alison had never seen a linen dress so free of wrinkles. She made a mental note to ask the all-capable Heather how she did it.