“I’m Tessa.” I hold out my hand.
“Barb,” she says, taking it.
“Now we’re not strangers.”
“I guess not. And this is?” She waves at Jasper, who shuffles farther behind my leg.
“Jasper.”
“Hi, Jasper. I’m Regina’s mom.” I expect him to sayGigi, but he’s curled up, performing shyness. “It’s all right. I’m not so good with new people either.”
I’m overwhelmed by how nice this woman is being to us, when we’re intruding on her tragedy, vultures to her grief.
“Can I buy you a coffee? Or maybe a smoothie?” I add before I can consider what I’m really asking her. “There’s this place, Café Collage. It’s a few blocks from here.”
We walk toward the parking lot, and I give her directions to theVenice Beachsign across from the café. She climbs into her car, waving to us before backing out. My instincts were right. I needed to come here, but not to talk to the police. I was meant to find her, the mother.
Chapter Ten
Barb
I arrive at Café Collage before Tessa and her son, so I locate an empty table in the far corner, conveniently the most private, and settle into an uncomfortable metal chair. Other than the hands from Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel fresco adorning one wall, this place is short on decor. It’s a commodity coffee shop, meant for a quick cup of joe. I have no idea why Tessa wanted to meet here.
My phone rings. It’s Linda. I debate picking up. I know she’ll think Tessa is a bored housewife eager for a little drama to fill her empty days.
“Hey, you,” Linda says when I answer. She doesn’t ask me how I am. She doesn’t need to. Instead, she lets me talk. I tell her about that smug Officer Gonzales, the tequila, Regina’s girlfriend. Hesitantly, I tell her about Tessa.
“Well.” Linda drags out the word as she decides how best to advise me not to be lured in. “Maybe she saw something. Or her son did. What’ve you got to lose by hearing her out?”
And this is why I adore Linda. I chide myself for assuming she would ever doubt me.
I sense Tessa before I see her, the rush of the door thrown open, the hurricane of her entrance. Her hair is falling out of her bun, and her son leans so far over in his stroller, he’d tumble out if not for thesafety belt. The cashier glances up at them, nostrils flared. I can’t tell if he recognizes them or if the presence of children generally irks him.
“She’s here,” I whisper to Linda as Tessa wheels Jasper to the counter. Before Linda hangs up, she makes me promise to call her every morning to let her know I’m okay. “Sure, Mom,” I tease, secretly grateful.
Tessa surveys the café, relief washing over her face as her eyes land on me. She motions to the menu, asking if I want a smoothie, and I mouth that I’d like strawberry. I covertly watch as she interacts with the surly barista, rocking the stroller back and forth to occupy her son. She’s blond and slim, like Regina, but everything else about her, from her sleek maternity clothes to her diamond studs to her good posture and her motherhood, is different. They wouldn’t have been friends. Not because they were in such opposing stages of life. This woman doesn’t have the scrappy fight my daughter had, the spirit that tells me Regina couldn’t have died without a struggle. Yet she’s the only one searching for my daughter.
Once Tessa’s seated across from me, she bites at the corner of her mouth, her eye contact fleeting. Her foot taps beneath the table, and I resist the impulse to put my hand on her knee, silencing it. As Tessa decides what to say to me, I bend over and bop her son on the nose, pretending it’s a horn. He echoes each of my beeps. I laugh, then catch myself before it becomes a cry. I never thought Regina would have children. The impossibility of being a grandmother now forces me to acknowledge that a small part of me, however naive, was waiting, hoping.
“He doesn’t usually take to people so quickly.” Tessa ruffles his hair. “The day your daughter died, we saw her here. Jasper ... it’s easier if I just show you.” Tessa unbuckles her son and pulls him onto her lap. He immediately lunges for her phone as she holds it out and scrolls to something.
“Jasper, who’s this?” She shows him the picture of Regina all the news outlets are using, the one that makes her look like a different sortof woman, as if it’s only a tragedy when the deceased is prim, hair free of dye, arms unadorned by ink.
He grabs the phone from her hands. “Gigi.”
A spark zips up my spine, an electric current down my limbs. No one has ever called ReginaGigi. Still, my entire being understands. This boy, Tessa’s son, he knew my daughter.
“My husband keeps saying I’m making something out of nothing. The way he was calling to her, and then when she was outside our home. It can’t be a coincidence, right?” She peers up, not hopeful but hoping.
“It’s not a coincidence,” I say coolly, even as my mind rages.It’s not a coincidence.
“I’m sorry.” She tears up. “It’s not my place to react like this.”
“Let’s not worry about whose place it is. If my baby knew her, I’d be terrified too.”
The barista calls Tessa’s name, and I pop up to grab our drinks, thankful for a moment to collect myself. After a career in human resources, I’m a good judge of character. I like Tessa. She’s warm and genuine. Confused and scared. I feel that familiar maternal pull, the one I developed with Jessica at the firm, the one I had to resist with Regina: the urge to help when no one has asked.
I bring our smoothies back to the table, where Tessa resumes her power struggle with Jasper, now over the pink drink instead of the phone. He wins, and she lets him hold it while he sips greedily from the straw. Or maybe she wins because he’s entertaining himself.
