I’ve made her angry, and she wants me to stop searching.
“Get it together. She wouldn’t want you to give up,” Diana mutters. It’s the perfect time to read Grace’s message. Both kids are at her parents’ house, lured by their dinner invitation and the promise of a trip to the ice cream shop in Alcott’s town center. There’s no reason to wait. Diana opens the letter and begins to read.
Dear Diana,
I’ve been eager to learn what happened when you found Jessica. I was, at first, concerned I had out-of-date contact information for her, but I shouldn’t have been. Jessica’s whereabouts and her life in general have been a mystery for some time. That’s why her parents took in her daughter, who, I am glad to report, is thriving. I called Jessica’s father after I received your letter. He told me she’s back in Portland and provided me with an updated phone number for her. I’ve included it below.
Thank you for asking about my move. I miss the farm very much. My new home is comfortable, though I wish my sister would stop brooding over my well-being so much.
Yours,
Grace
Underneath Jessica’s new phone number, printed carefully so there’s no way Diana could misunderstand the digits, is a postscript:
P.S. I’ve enclosed a photo of Tom and Jessica I found while unpacking. Thought you might like to have it.
The photo is faded and worn smooth by time. Tom holds a rake in one hand and a baseball cap in the other. His hair is lighter than Dianaremembers, bleached by the sun. He looks beautiful. Young, healthy, andalive. Diana welcomes the swell of grief that rushes over her.
At his side stands Jessica. She barely comes up to the middle of his chest, and in her arms, she carries a large wooden bucket. She’s attractive, with full cheeks and an explosion of curly brown hair. She looks like someone Diana has seen before, and at first, she assumes it’s because Jessica was in the photo on Grace’s wall, the group shot on the porch that included Tom, or because she found her profile on Facebook.
But that’s not it.
The answer comes to her like a snare drum beating out a steady rhythm, slowly and then faster until it builds into a resounding crescendo. She runs up the stairs to her bedroom, her feet skipping the top step. Kneeling on the floor, Diana yanks open the bottom drawer of Tom’s bedside table.
The notebook with his sketches.
The woman on one of the back pages.
Diana holds the photograph next to the sketch. The woman in the notebook is older, with a thinner face and faint lines around her eyes, but it’s her: Jessica.
She assumed Jessica and Tom lost touch after that summer at the farm. This sketch makes her think they saw one another again. Or that Tom thought about Jessica enough to have been inspired to envision her as she might look in the present day. Either way, Jessica appears to have been more important to Tom than Diana knew.
Diana has been wrong about so much.
She doesn’t wail or curse or punch her fist against her bed. At the beginning, in those early weeks after finding the time capsule, she would have done all those things.
Instead, she thinks of Tom’s letter:I should have accepted responsibility a long time ago, before I met you. Maybe if I tell you now, it will be enough. It’s also possible I’m making things worse for you by writing this letter.
Diana takes one long look at the sketch and places the notebook back in the bedside table. She stands up, tucks her hair behind her ears, and fiddles with the leather buttons on her cardigan. She reviews her options, and a list slowly forms:What Should I Do Next?
“I don’t need a list for this,” she says.
Diana returns to the kitchen, where she collects her phone and enters Jessica’s new number. The phone rings two, three, five times before the voicemail kicks in with the default greeting, robotic and impersonal.
Startled, Diana hangs up. She hasn’t rehearsed a message. She stares at the phone in her hand. “That was dumb.”
What is it that Duncan says? Only old people use voicemail? Diana clicks over to her text messaging app and starts typing.
Hi Jessica—Grace O’Connor gave me your number. I’m Tom Morgan’s widow. I’m looking for information about the time you spent with him on your aunt and uncle’s farm when you were in high school. Can we talk? I’d meet you, too, if that would be easier. I live outside Boston. Thank you—Diana
As the text swooshes away, Diana’s stomach drops.What have I done? What makes me think she’ll respond?
She waits, her fingers mapping the edge of the phone, hoping for an answer, but nothing comes.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
As the Alcott Memorial Library Spring Fling begins, Diana is in the women’s bathroom forcing her hips into a black sheath dress she found in the back of her closet but didn’t try on until now. As she grabs for the zipper, the satiny fabric tugs and pulls, leaving bulges across her midsection.
