He turns away from the screen to squint at Diana, blinded by the sunlight accompanying her inside. She steps forward and lets the door swing shut. The man returns to his half-full—or is it half-empty?—beer.Diana doesn’t know whether she should look for an optimistic slant on what has clearly begun as morning drinking.
In truth, she has no idea what’s brought this stranger to Fiona’s. Maybe it’s the end of his day, a backbreaking night shift behind him. Maybe it’s nonalcoholic beer. Or maybe it’s one of a dozen other possibilities. Diana’s nervousness is causing her to make assumptions, which she can’t do if she’s going to connect with Jessica. She offers a silent apology to Fiona’s only other customer and takes a seat at a table next to a shrine to the 2004 Boston Red Sox.
As she drops her sunglasses into her dress pocket, a woman enters through a set of swinging doors. Diana twists her neck to peer at her. Is this Jessica? She asked to meet here; she didn’t say whether she would be a customer or an employee.
When the woman turns, Diana is presented with a clear view of her face.Not Jessica,she thinks, recalling the photo Grace sent her, which she carries in the zipped pocket of her purse. The woman puts a plate of food in front of the beer drinker, and they speak briefly, their voices low. She glances at Diana, wipes her hands on a towel hanging from the waistband of her jeans, and comes out from behind the bar.
“You order at the bar at this time of day. No waitstaff for the tables,” the woman says, stopping a few feet from Diana. Her dull blond hair is cut into a chin-length bob, and her voice is rough, the Boston accent swallowing up therin each word.
Yah ordah at the bah,Diana hears. She’s never, despite growing up outside the city, been able to mimic the accent.
“You want a drink?” The woman—Diana decides she must be Fiona—cocks her hip and pushes up her shirtsleeves, gestures that indicate she isn’t up for arguments or complaints.
“A seltzer, please.” Diana follows Fiona across the room, eyeing the door as a glass of carbonated water shifts across the bar, bubbly drops falling on the polished wood.
“Waiting for someone?” Fiona asks. Diana nods and opens up her purse to pay, but the bartender waves her away. “Get me on your way out.”
As she returns to her table, Diana’s phone buzzes. She opens her purse to see who texted. It’s Lakshmi:Be safe.
A new list starts—What Will I Do If Jessica Stands Me Up?—but Diana is stopped by the loud screech of the front door’s rusty hinges. Sunlight pours in, and it’s her turn to blink against the glare.
A slight shape pauses in the threshold.
“Here she is,” Diana murmurs, her heart racing.
Jessica scans the bar and acknowledges Fiona with a swing of her head so quick as to be missed in the reflex of blinking. She skips over the man at the bar and lands, at last, on Diana.
Diana holds up her hand. “Jessica?”
Jessica nods but walks over to Fiona. The two women chat, and Fiona hands Jessica a drink in a tall glass. Diana can’t tell whether they’re friends or meeting for the first time. She doesn’t know whether Jessica is a frequent visitor to Fiona’s. Or how she gets by. Or really anything about her.
Jessica is not what Diana expected. After hearing about Jessica from Grace and meeting Nikki, Diana anticipated Tom’s ex would present with obvious signs of addiction, someone clearly struggling to function in the world.
This Jessica is the opposite.
Pretty, with a generous mouth and wide-set eyes, Jessica looks like one of the moms who meet for coffee at Sully’s, straight from school drop-off. She’s petite, barely five feet. Her hair runs to the middle of her back, and her corkscrew curls gently bounce as she moves. She wears a denim jacket, skinny black jeans, and ankle boots. Under her jacket is a green, striped blouse Diana immediately recognizes; she bought the same shirt last week. Jessica looks a lot like the girl from the photo: radiant and healthy. Diana has been more judgmental than she realized; she expected someone entirely different.
Jessica joins Diana at the table and, in a sustained chug, gulps down a third of her glass. Diana suspects Jessica’s drink of choice is soda, though she wouldn’t blame her if it included a shot of something strong and alcoholic. Stress practically radiates off her.
An ornate tattoo of the name Ava peeks out from the edge of Jessica’s sleeve, its chunky lines twisting around her forearm. Her eyes, a rich brown, close briefly and then flutter open. “So you’re Tom’s wife.”
Jessica’s voice is low-pitched and raspy, as if she’s been standing at the edge of a stage, screaming at her favorite band to play one more song. She locks her eyes with Diana, but Diana doesn’t look away.
With each passing second, a realization comes to her, a connection she should have made sooner, perhaps when she saw the photo with Grace’s letter or when she looked again at Tom’s drawings. She’s been a beat behind this entire time, so it’s not a surprise she missed this.
“We’ve met before,” Diana says.
Jessica blinks rapidly.
“Yes,” Diana says slowly, heat rising in her body, turning her cheeks red. “We’ve met. At Sully’s. The missing cat. That was you. That wasn’t the only time, was it? I’ve seen you before.”
Jessica drinks instead of responding.
“How often? How often have you been there and I didn’t see you?” Lakshmi was correct about Diana’s safety being a concern. Diana pushes her chair away from the table. “Have you beenfollowingme?”
Jessica slides her hand into her pocket, and when her fist exits her jacket, her fingers are curved, hiding something. Diana is unable to make out what it is, and she stiffens, fearing the worst. “I’m sorry,” Jessica says.
Diana glances down and gasps. Her house key and the missing photo of Tom and their kids lie in front of her.
