“I have an appointment with Jonathan Hobart. I’m—”
“Diana!” Jonathan strides into the lobby and envelops her in a hug. Her face presses against his itchy blue suit jacket. “How are you? The kids? Everyone wants to say hello. We’ll do the greetings after?”
“I’d appreciate that.”
“Are you hungry or thirsty? How about a cappuccino?”
Jonathan makes arrangements with the receptionist, whose name Diana never gets, and steers her to his office. His phone rings as he closes his door. “Sorry, I have to take this. Won’t take long.”
Diana hasn’t seen Jonathan in months; he looks good—thinner, more fit—though his hair is grayer at the temples. His office hasn’t changed: Empty coffee cups line the windowsill, paperwork is piled onthe floor by his desk, and lawbooks blanket the table in the corner. On a bookshelf near the door are an award from the bar association and photos of Lily and their kids. The original “Hobart and Morgan” sign sits on the top shelf, next to a framed photo of Jonathan and Tom cutting the ribbon for the building’s grand opening. Diana takes it down for a closer look. She and Lily stand on the other side of their husbands; Duncan perches on Diana’s hip, and Lily, largely pregnant with their second daughter, holds their toddler’s hand. How young they were. How long ago this all feels. How much time has passed since Diana last spoke with Lily.
Lily and Diana were once close, a connection born of Jonathan and Tom’s friendship and, later, their business partnership. Perhaps each woman subconsciously cultivated their relationship to keep harmony between the men in those years when starting the law firm called for long hours and sacrifice.
Their friendship had the added benefit of grounding Diana during the upheaval caused by Duncan’s arrival. Amid the exhaustion of early motherhood, Diana and Lily regularly met up to push their children in clunky strollers along Alcott’s bike path or to sit together at Sully’s, the café in Alcott center. Together, overcaffeinated and sleep-deprived, they shared breastfeeding tips and whispered about the women who came in wearing kitten heels, with perfect makeup and impeccable blowouts. Diana envied how rested they looked, a sign they had time for themselves, a luxury that had disappeared for her with Duncan’s birth. Lily, on the other hand, focused on their clothing and accessories, identifying the high-end brands each woman wore and calculating the cost of their ensembles.
Diana recalled those days as confusing; she was overjoyed with being a mother, yet she resented the loss of some essential part of herself, as if she’d sacrificed her own identity for her son. With Lily, Diana found the companionship she needed, and she looked forward to sharing the different phases of parenthood with her.
When Tom was diagnosed, however, Lily and Jonathan drifted from the center of Tom and Diana’s friend group to its fringes. Consumed with Tom’s needs, it took Diana a while to notice, and at first, she was stung they’d pulled away. Yet she wasn’t shocked. People were afraid of Diana and Tom, as if spending time in their presence put them at higher risk for losing their own spouse or receiving a terminal diagnosis. It didn’t change after Tom died either; people acted as if widowhood were communicable, or as if Diana were radioactive, exposed to too much pain and therefore dangerous.
Six months after Tom’s funeral, in the hope of reconnecting, Diana called Lily. The coffee date that followed was memorable for its awkwardness. Lily jabbered away about a recent shopping trip to New York City and didn’t ask once how Diana and the kids were managing without Tom.
“I miss him all the time,” Jonathan says, coming up next to her. “But I’m happy to see you, Diana. What brings you here today?”
Diana puts the photo back on the shelf and turns to Jonathan. “I need your help.”
Twenty minutes later, she sips her cappuccino as Jonathan reads Tom’s letter for the fourth time. “You found this where?” Jonathan asks. His lunch sits on the desk, untouched.
“In a Leap Day time capsule from 2012.” He’s asked her this question multiple times, and she’s curious if this is an established lawyerly technique: Ask the same question over and over until the answer changes, or until the answer is finally believed.
“It’s his handwriting, but it doesn’t sound like him.” Jonathan hands the letter to her and sits back, his arms crossed. “This isn’t what I thought you wanted to talk about.”
“What did you think I wanted?”
“The building. I thought maybe you wanted to sell.”
Tom divested himself of the firm before he died but retained their co-ownership of the building. Jonathan and Lily own 50 percent; Tom and Diana—now Diana—own the other 50 percent. The rent checks from the building’s other tenants are a stable source of income, especially since she’s a single parent. “Keep the building for the short term,” Tom said when they reviewed their finances before he entered hospice. “Someday, you might want to sell. Make sure you get a good deal.”
Diana places her drink on the edge of Jonathan’s desk. “That’s not why I’m here. I need advice about this letter.”
“Right.”
She waits for him to say more, but he seems stuck, the silver-tongued attorney at a loss.
After an awkward silence, Jonathan picks up his salad, the plastic container squeaking as he wrenches it open. “What are your questions for me?”
“Did you know about this?”
“Did I know Tom committed a crime when he was eighteen?” Jonathan asks, swallowing a mouthful of lettuce.
“You were his best friend.”
“You were his wife. I’m assuming, from the way the letter is written, you were oblivious to this as well.”
Diana flinches.
“Shit, Diana, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.” Jonathan pushes away his salad, and the fork falls to the floor. “I don’t know about any of this, including these people he mentions. The ones he says might come looking for you. Are you okay?”
“Nothing happened at college? Nothing out of the ordinary?” Tom and Jonathan met freshmen year, thrown together by the randomness of roommate assignments. They instantly became the best of friends, living together all the way through law school. “When you and Tom met, he was eighteen. Maybe he’s referring to your first year of college?”
