“I do not have a Southern accent.” Rebecca gave an exaggerated huff, grinning.
“You totally do. ‘Rebecca Chastayyyyyn, how may I help yewwwww?’” Sarah mimicked her in a high falsetto, adding at least six syllables to the words.
“Knock it off, babe,” Rebecca countered in her best New York cabbie impression, and the women laughed.
“It’s good to hear your voice.” Sarah’s own was warm across the miles. “How’ve you been? You sound happy. I don’t think we’ve done much but text these last few weeks. It’s been crazy here.”
“Here, too! And I am happy, sort of.” Rebecca looked out her car window at the newspaper office, the “open” sign already turned around. Inside, she could see Millie bustling about, making coffee and straightening up, preparing for the busy day ahead.
“What do you do all day? Do you like it? Are you going to come back with all these hometown quirks?”
Rebecca found herself wanting to tell all about Devon, and the fishing hole she’d rediscovered, and her old friend Josh and his cute little son with the freckles and crazy hair, and the James Watkinsstories, but it all sounded like the kind of stereotypical Southern living Sarah would tease her about endlessly.
“Would you believe I’ve been fishing? I connected with an old friend, and he and his son and I caught, like, five bass in the river the other day,” she summed up instead, and Sarah laughed heartily.
“I love it! Fishing! Please text me a picture of you and a worm. Better yet, post it on socials. Marisol and I had actual bets on whether you’d take up fishing or knitting. Or, what’s that thing they do with the fruits and vegetables—preserving, or canning?” Sarah teased. “Oh, Rebecca, I’ve missed you.”
“I miss you too, Sarah.”
She did. Suddenly, the smells and sounds of New York came back in a rush, and she closed her eyes, remembering the last time she’d seen her friend, at their goodbye brunch at that French-fusion place in the Village.
Sarah and Marisol had done their best to act normal, like Rebecca hadn’t just been in the psych ward, like she was heading off on a new adventure and not some therapist-ordered respite in the middle of nowhere. But at the end of their lunch, after Marisol had slipped off to the restroom, Sarah had pressed something into Rebecca’s hand. She’d opened it to see a small yellow-crystal sun on a slim chain. Rebecca had held it up, and it sparkled in the afternoon light, throwing prisms of color around the restaurant. For hope, Sarah had told her then, hugging her hard and tight, like she was afraid Rebecca would disappear, never come back, gone for good.
Rebecca had hung the sun on her rearview mirror in the car, and she batted it now, remembering that day, remembering the feel of her friend’s arms around her neck, remembering the long walk back to her apartment, where she and Granny had packed the last of her things and said goodbye to the city.
“How are you really doing?” Sarah’s voice was quiet.
“Honestly, much better.”
“Really?” Sarah let out a shaky laugh. “I’ve been worried about you, girlfriend.”
“Scout’s honor. I’ve been taking my Prozac, laying low, exercising, and steering clear of all men. Even the cute ones.”
“I don’t know, Mr. Fishing Buddy sounds like an eligible man.”
Sarah’s tone was suggestive, and Rebecca snorted. “Seriously, I even turned down a date with a mega-gorgeous man. We’re talking better-looking than Peter.”
“I’m impressed.”
“You should be.” Rebecca pictured Erik, his warm smile, the way his button-down and slender tie hung just right on his trim physique. A little shiver threatened, and she tamped it down. No dating, she reminded herself. Not for a long, long time.
As they hung up, Rebecca realized that for the first time, she’d said Peter’s name like it was nothing.
For an instant, she pictured him. His dark hair, perfect teeth. His laugh. The oddest thought struck her then—Peter was like an illusion. Like a man she’d seen in a movie, or dreamed about. Not real at all. Just an idea. An idea she thought she’d been in love with.
An idea she’d almost died for. An involuntary shudder ran through her.
And giving the crystal yellow sun a last playful swing, she slid her leather bag onto her shoulder and headed into the office.
???
The morning flew by in a flurry of activity, as usual: Dinah on sales calls, Millie dealing with customers, Tiff finishing her stories while tap-tapping her stilettos—strappy beige sandal stilettos, for the summertime, of course—and Rebecca herself, hair top-knotted and a red pen in her hand, marking up changes to the finished pieces.
The phone rang, and Rebecca grabbed it.
“I have two things to say to you this morning, Rebecca Chastain, and I don’t want any lip,” the woman’s gruff voice began, and Rebecca groaned inwardly.
“Mrs. Pauling?” Rebecca asked politely.
