First, we were four. Then we were three. And for the past two decades, it has only been Quinn and me. With the return of Porter, are we about to be three again?
I reach across the table for Quinn’s hands. Her pleading expression doesn’t change, but she willingly places both her hands in mine. “I have to tell you something, Quinn.”
“Don’t you dare tell me you have cancer, Callie Kingman. Don’t you dare.” I see the tears well up in Quinn’s eyes before my lips have parted. Divorce and cancer seem to be the most common news headlines among our contemporaries these days. Since I have already covered divorce, I understand how this is Quinn’s go-to guess when I insisted on breakfast at Tom’s before my necessary post-red-eye shower and nap.
“Quinn,” I begin, searching for the rest of my sentence.
“Are John and Andrew okay?” Quinn panics. I realize that what I have to tell her is not necessarily devastating at the level we have come to know at our age and stage in life. It’s just straight-up shocking, so I better spill it before Quinn’s cortisol spikes any further.
“I don’t have cancer and the boys are fine. It’s about my date with Chap,” I continue, but Quinn cuts me off before I can tell her any more.
“Don’t worry, we can find you another boy toy in New York. Easy.” Now that I am right here with her, Quinn waves away any talk of a date that took place thousands of miles away in which she was so invested less than forty-eight hours ago. She blows a foggy breath on the spotted silverware and wipes it on the arm of her blazer as if she’s cleaning herreading glasses. “Young handsome guys are everywhere. I’ll find you one of the first-year associates in my office. There’s this kid, Duncan, he’s—”
Now it’s my turn to cut Quinn off. “Turns out the date wasn’t with Chap. It was with Porter.”
Quinn’s fork clanks onto the table and spins to the floor.
“Wait. What?”
“You heard me.”
“What do you mean,Porter? Like, Porter, Porter?”
“I mean Porter was there at the table when I walked up.” Quinn’s fallen face is what I imagine mine must have looked like at The Firehouse Restaurant. No amount of filler could pick it back up. I turn the side of my mouth up a tad to confirm the answer to Quinn’s question. I’ve had thirty-six hours to prepare for the befuddlement that is plastered across Quinn’s face, but I, too, remain bewildered by what transpired. It’s as if one of the countless number of dreams I have had featuring Porter’s grand return to me came true. Until now, I’ve only ever awakened in disappointment.
“But. I mean. How? After all this time. How? Where? Where has he been?”
It occurs to me that I never told Quinn Chap’s last name. I was about to on the phone the night of Alice’s engagement, but with my sieve of a menopausal memory, I forgot among all the long-distance hoopla of the evening, and I’m glad I did. I could have ruined what was a celebratory night for Quinn and Alice. “Turns out Porter has lived in Sacramento longer than I have. He’s been right there every day.”
Quinn’s face sets in a hard expression, and her thumb plays with the gold wedding band she had sized down and now wears on her right-hand pinkie. Charles is always with her. I can’t tell if she’s trying to hold back a well of emotion, a rant, or if she doesn’t believe me.
I still can’t believe that I sat across from Porter Beaumont after thirty years of wondering,What if?And in all those years of wondering, how is it that I never worked out what I would say if given another opportunity to see him? I can’t believe I was caught without wordsto rip into Porter. While other passengers slept as we flew over Reno, Indianapolis, and Hartford, I scribbled down a list of things I wished I had said to Porter, had I not been ambushed. With my cross-country, fine-tuned one-liners in hand, I desperately wanted a Porter redo but would now have to settle for sharing my sound bites and biting sounds with Quinn.
“Did he know about Charles?” Quinn asks meekly.
“He did,” I answer. “From their football coach.” Quinn’s eyes dart around the restaurant. I can sense the heat of panic radiating from her side of the booth.
Given the happiness and celebration of Alice’s wedding week, I was hesitant to tell Quinn about Porter. I considered waiting until the kids were off on their honeymoon and Quinn and I were huddled up, hungover on her couch, but I knew there was no way I could keep this information to myself. Neither of us deserved to be kept in the dark any longer. And even if I had tried to shield her, she would have suspected something was up and nagged me until I told her anyway.
“Why didn’t he come to Charles’s service?”
“That was the first thing I asked,” I assure Quinn, and give her a moment for the tears she has been holding back to roll down her cheeks. “He was there, Quinn. He watched the whole thing from the back of the church. He was there for Charles. For you.” Out of concern for Quinn’s feelings, I aim to soften the details, even while I still bristle at the facts. Quinn nods her head yes and releases a large breath upward to dry her eyes.
“Is that why you called me in the middle of the night?” she asks, reaching over to the empty booth behind us to grab another napkin and wipe her nose.
“Yeah.”
“I thought you were calling for moral sex support from some cluttered corner of Chap’s place. I didn’t pick up because I wanted you to have one hell of a rebound night all on your own. Prove to yourself that you still had it.”
“It was definitely one hell of a night,” I confirm. “Turns out Chap is a nickname. Short for Charles. Charles Beaumont.” I let the first and last name settle into our table for Quinn. “Chap is Porter’s nephew. But really his son. Porter basically raised him from the day he was born.” I let this revelation sink in for Quinn. The space between us is quiet. A rarity for the two of us, but I get it. What is there to say? And yet, there is everything to say.
“I’m sorry, Callie, I’m at a loss for words. Last I knew, you were going on a date with Chap in Sacramento, and now you’re in New York telling me you spent an evening with Porter Beaumont. How did Porter end up on your date with Chap?”
I look at my watch and then back at Quinn. “What time do you have to be at the office?” This story is not short, and it can’t be rushed. “I know you have a crazy couple of days to tie up details at work to make sure you are all there for Alice on Saturday.”
“Hold on.” Quinn fishes her phone out of her coat pocket and types aggressively. “Tomorrow. I need to be at the office by nine tomorrow morning. Today, I need you to tell me everything.”
“Is it too early to order french fries?” I ask Quinn as I sort out in my head where to start.
