Diana hopes nothing will appear, that this whole mess is a dream, a nightmare, a lie.
Quickly, too quickly, the screen loads with the results.Hundreds of results.
So many different Thomas Morgans have committed so many different crimes, from mail fraud to theft to tax evasion to child pornography. Diana grows queasy with each result. She studies an article about a Thomas Morgan seeking a prison pen pal and spends too much time looking at the mug shots of Thomas Morgans. None of these men are her husband. A revised search—“Thomas Morgan” + crime + 1982, the year Tom turned eighteen—also doesn’t turn up what she needs.
Trying to decide where and what to search for next, she doesn’t notice when her office door, which she left slightly ajar, is pushed open. The library’s director, Camille Taylor, appears in the doorway. “Diana?”
Nearly six feet tall with her hair in long, thin braids gathered in a bun, Camille has dark eyes and freckles along her high cheekbones. Today, she wears a white tunic and slim-cut navy pants with sparkling teardrop earrings and silver bangles on her wrists. The two women first met a decade ago, when Diana, sick of the commute into Boston, interviewed to work at Alcott Memorial. As the first female head of the library, Camille diversified the collection to include more writers of color, hired staff experienced with technology and social media, and raised record-setting donations for the library. Along the way, Camille and Diana bonded over their children, their vision for Alcott Memorial, and their shared love of historical fiction.
“Are you free?” Camille asks, bracelets jingling against one another as she closes the door.
“Of course.” Diana minimizes the internet browser and turns her computer screen slightly away.
“You seemed distracted in the meeting, and I wanted to check on you.”
Diana fidgets with the pen lying on her desk. “I had a terrible night’s sleep, and it must have thrown me off. Do you think the team could tell? Should I send an apology email?”
Camille’s shoulders relax, and she lowers into the chair. “An apology isn’t necessary. I doubt anyone noticed other than me. Is there anything you need to talk about?”
Diana considers telling Camille about Tom’s letter, but every one of her instincts, no matter how dulled by the hangover of insomnia and all that wine, begs her to stay silent. After all, she has no idea what she’s dealing with. Camille and the rest of the library staff were generous with their time and patience while Tom was sick and in the months after his death, but there’s a limit, isn’t there?
“No, nothing’s bothering me,” she lies. “Nothing at all.”
After Camille leaves, several additional online searches bring Diana no closer to deciphering Tom’s letter, so she calls down to the reference desk for help accessing the library’s online research consortium. The librarian, in quintessentially gruff New England fashion, chastises her for never registering for the service. She rectifies Diana’s oversight in seconds, grumbling all the way. “If you have other questions, we’re here,” the librarian, a neighbor of Diana’s parents, adds before she abruptly hangs up.
“No thanks,” Diana mutters, moving back to her computer screen. She stops at the framed photo of Tom on her desk. She snapped it on their honeymoon in Greece, the blue and white buildings of Santorini aglow in the waning rays of a sunset that reached on into forever. It’s as if the photo has captured his essence, as if she could bring him back to the living with it if she only tries hard enough.
Another list comes to her:Why Didn’t Tom Tell Me What He Did?Why go to the trouble of writing—and hiding—this letter and keep the whole truth to himself?
He meant to tell me but got too sick to do so.
He was scared.
He was afraid of what would happen if I knew the truth.
He—
Diana is pulled out of her list-making by animated voices in the hall. She sticks her head out of her office to find her mother inconversation with the department admin. Afraid Vivian is asking her colleague highly personal questions or offering unsolicited advice, both of which her mother is wont to do, Diana interrupts her midsentence. “Mom? What are you doing here?”
Vivian nods goodbye to the admin and lugs two shopping bags to Diana. “I’m here to see you, of course.”
“I’m working.”
“I’m sure you can take a break to talk with your mother, can’t you?” Vivian kisses Diana’s cheek and breezes into her office, rose perfume trailing along behind her. She drops the bags next to the desk. “These are for the children. A new sweatshirt and jeans for Duncan. Socks, too. Pajamas and new dresses for Phoebe.”
Diana pokes through the bags. “You didn’t need to do this, Mom.”
“I wanted to.” Vivian sits down across from Diana and removes a glass container from her large purse. “An egg salad sandwich, your favorite. You forgot your lunch, didn’t you?”
“Mom—”
“I thought more about Family Dinner. I’ll bring everything, not only the main dish. All you need to do is prepare the house. You can do that, yes?”
“Yes, of course I can.” Diana and her sister call Vivian “The General” behind her back, so efficiently does their mother run her life, their father’s, and the rest of the family’s. As a teenager, Diana chafed under her mother’s extensive efficiency and competence; as a widow with two kids, she knows The General is one of the reasons she manages to remain a functioning member of society.
Her mother has always had the uncanny ability to anticipate her family’s needs. Diana knows that if she looked inside that large purse, she’d find the typical items, like aspirin, mints, tissues, and lipstick, but also a number of surprises. Over the years, her mother’s purse has been home to items significantly more unexpected than an egg salad sandwich: a pocket copy of the US Constitution, used to settle a heated argument about the Bill of Rights during a family road trip; a peppergrinder to add flavor to the rubbery chicken served during Duncan’s basketball banquet; and a stapler she happened to have on the day Diana needed to turn in the kids’ summer camp registration forms. The General has never produced a lamp from her bag like Mary Poppins, but Diana wouldn’t put it past her mother to try.
“Thanks for the clothes. I’m sure the kids will love it all.” Diana drains the last of Lakshmi’s coffee. “What’s on your schedule for the rest of the day?”
