I was still turning that over when my phone buzzed with a message from the hotel front desk, just before noon, saying a letter had been delivered for me and would I like it sent up. I said yes, mostly out of reflex, still half-inside the conversation with Lucas that had ended an hour ago and left me feeling scraped clean in the way that only honest arguments with people you love can manage.
The concierge arrived with a cream envelope, heavy stock, my full name written on the front in the kind of handwriting that belonged to a generation that had learned penmanship as a matter of character rather than convenience. I tipped him. I closed the door. I read it standing in the middle of the room.
*Ms. Bennett, I wonder if you might join me for dinner this evening. 7pm. The Aldrich Club, ask fo
