assigned to locate Lexie Paine. With a pang of dismay, I realized Hostetler had decided to follow me in the hope I might lead him to my friend.
Well, there was no way I could take off running down the nearest alley and lose him, considering the shape I was in. I’d just have to think of a way to send him on a wild-goose chase. For the moment, I pretended not to notice him and walked in the opposite direction.
My next stop was a dinner for a politician who should have retired long before he dodderingly started spouting century-old political views about women. The dinner promised to be as dull as beans.
But I arrived to discover that the hotel had been almost entirely taken over by an extended Indian family celebrating a wedding. The lobby was full of lively ladies in magnificent silk saris and dignified men decked out in traditional sherwani, although many had swapped out the usual leggings for Western trousers. Feeling underdressed, I cut around a group of young women and teenage girls who were elaborately hennaed and wore gold bangles on their arms. When one of them stepped into my path, I recognized a woman I had met before. In her native finery, though, I couldn’t recall her name. She reintroduced herself as Priyanka Sengupta, and I realized she was a doctor I’d encountered at some hospital fund-raisers.
“May I take your photograph?” I asked her after we exchanged greetings. “Your sari is lovely.”
Priyanka agreed and asked her friends to join her, so I was able to snap several photos of their exquisite makeup and clothing. One photograph of the young doctor’s arm—covered in a serpentine henna design that looked like a beautiful, though temporary, tattoo—was going to look great at the top of my weekly wedding roundup.
She said, “Nowadays, it’s usually just the bride who has the mehndi design. The darker the henna, the happier her marriage will be. But we all got into the ceremony yesterday, so we were all painted. Very pretty, don’t you think?”
“Beautiful.”
“The bride has her husband’s initials painted in henna somewhere secret on her body.” She dimpled as she smiled. “It’s his job to find his own initials on the wedding night.”
It was a serendipitous and charming encounter. I had been wanting to jazz up my wedding coverage with something other than white-bread events, and this would be a good addition. I thanked them all and wished them a happy evening.
In the ladies’ room, I pulled a light jacket out of my bag to formalize my linen dress. I swapped my sturdier shoes for a pair of dressy heels and touched up my lipstick. The final effect wouldn’t get me noticed at the Indian wedding, but it was a definite improvement.
I headed down a long hallway to one of the more distant ballrooms to find the retirement party. As the cocktail hour was ending, I snapped a picture of the tanned and beaming honoree. He had one arm clamped around his mortified wife, who managed to keep a smile frozen on her face. His clueless sons were already drunk. With his antiquated views, the man of the hour had offended women everywhere, so very few were in attendance. Only a handful of former political allies had showed up to wave the guest of honor into the sunset. They had all benefited from his favors over several decades, but now many were too afraid of being tarred with the same sexist brush to show up to thank him.
I wasn’t crazy about attending, either. But I dutifully found the table in the back of the room where I had been seated with some other journalists covering the retirement.
As I sat down, one of the television reporters said, “Hey, Nora. Tell us what you know about Lexie Paine. Is she really living in a Red Roof Inn on I-95?”
“I have no idea,” I said as plausibly as I could manage.
Another newspaper reporter grinned. “I hear she’s hoardingstray cats in a dump in Roxborough. She’s fallen a long way from the caviar buffet at Vendre’s. If you see her, tell her
Well, there was no way I could take off running down the nearest alley and lose him, considering the shape I was in. I’d just have to think of a way to send him on a wild-goose chase. For the moment, I pretended not to notice him and walked in the opposite direction.
My next stop was a dinner for a politician who should have retired long before he dodderingly started spouting century-old political views about women. The dinner promised to be as dull as beans.
But I arrived to discover that the hotel had been almost entirely taken over by an extended Indian family celebrating a wedding. The lobby was full of lively ladies in magnificent silk saris and dignified men decked out in traditional sherwani, although many had swapped out the usual leggings for Western trousers. Feeling underdressed, I cut around a group of young women and teenage girls who were elaborately hennaed and wore gold bangles on their arms. When one of them stepped into my path, I recognized a woman I had met before. In her native finery, though, I couldn’t recall her name. She reintroduced herself as Priyanka Sengupta, and I realized she was a doctor I’d encountered at some hospital fund-raisers.
“May I take your photograph?” I asked her after we exchanged greetings. “Your sari is lovely.”
Priyanka agreed and asked her friends to join her, so I was able to snap several photos of their exquisite makeup and clothing. One photograph of the young doctor’s arm—covered in a serpentine henna design that looked like a beautiful, though temporary, tattoo—was going to look great at the top of my weekly wedding roundup.
She said, “Nowadays, it’s usually just the bride who has the mehndi design. The darker the henna, the happier her marriage will be. But we all got into the ceremony yesterday, so we were all painted. Very pretty, don’t you think?”
“Beautiful.”
“The bride has her husband’s initials painted in henna somewhere secret on her body.” She dimpled as she smiled. “It’s his job to find his own initials on the wedding night.”
It was a serendipitous and charming encounter. I had been wanting to jazz up my wedding coverage with something other than white-bread events, and this would be a good addition. I thanked them all and wished them a happy evening.
In the ladies’ room, I pulled a light jacket out of my bag to formalize my linen dress. I swapped my sturdier shoes for a pair of dressy heels and touched up my lipstick. The final effect wouldn’t get me noticed at the Indian wedding, but it was a definite improvement.
I headed down a long hallway to one of the more distant ballrooms to find the retirement party. As the cocktail hour was ending, I snapped a picture of the tanned and beaming honoree. He had one arm clamped around his mortified wife, who managed to keep a smile frozen on her face. His clueless sons were already drunk. With his antiquated views, the man of the hour had offended women everywhere, so very few were in attendance. Only a handful of former political allies had showed up to wave the guest of honor into the sunset. They had all benefited from his favors over several decades, but now many were too afraid of being tarred with the same sexist brush to show up to thank him.
I wasn’t crazy about attending, either. But I dutifully found the table in the back of the room where I had been seated with some other journalists covering the retirement.
As I sat down, one of the television reporters said, “Hey, Nora. Tell us what you know about Lexie Paine. Is she really living in a Red Roof Inn on I-95?”
“I have no idea,” I said as plausibly as I could manage.
Another newspaper reporter grinned. “I hear she’s hoardingstray cats in a dump in Roxborough. She’s fallen a long way from the caviar buffet at Vendre’s. If you see her, tell her
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