“I don’t know.” The path forward is unclear. As Yumi knows, my usual impulse would be to confront everyone, clear the air, make sure all is set right. “Miguel thinks we should just let it all go. He returned the bracelet to Holly this morning. He says everything else is in the past.”
“He’s not wrong,” Yumi says. I look up to see concern in her face. “I know that if it were Ryan, I wouldn’t want him tangled up in a police investigation.”
“I don’t want that either. Anyway, that would never happen with Ryan.” Her son, like my Zach, just finished his sophomore year in college, and he is the last kid who would break into neighbors’ houses. But while Zach sailed through school getting As in AP classes, editing the school newspaper, and running cross-country, Ryan struggled. He’d always been shy, but his anxiety had ballooned after his parents’ divorce and Yumi’s illness. High school was tough for him. I know it was a big relief for Yumi that he even went out of state to school, and she was thrilled when he finally made friends.
“There’s something to be said for letting sleeping dogs lie,” Yumi says. “I mean, Rachel’s headed to Georgetown in a few months. I don’t know, maybe I shouldn’t have said anything to you.”
“What? No, I’m glad you did. We have to promise to tell each other the whole truth.” I look her in the eye. “Even if it’s brutal.”
She smiles. “Deal. Even if it’s brutal.”
In the close to twenty years I have lived in this neighborhood, I’ve had all kinds of friendships. Ones that only lasted the length of the tennis season and ones that I thought would last forever but splintered apart after a few years. I can count on one hand the people I could call at three in the morning, confessing I had just been arrested, who would empty their bank accounts to come bail me out. Yumi is one of them. I helped her through her divorce several years ago, and she helped me move my parents from New York down to Florida. Many times we’ve sat with each other over the years as we took turns crying.
That’s why her keeping this from me feels so strange. Shejust wouldn’t do it. But the alternative makes no sense at all. Why in the world would she lie about seeing Rachel?
“Don’t do anything rash, Caren. Promise me.”
After walking Kugel home, I loop back through the neighborhood, the conversation I had with Yumi still echoing in my head. It’s left me with a strange feeling, like she wasn’t being honest with me. But maybe I just don’t like what she had to say because it resurrected the gnawing worries about Rachel that have been dormant this past year. The questions curl at the edges of my thoughts like smoke: Do I bring it up when Rachel gets home from her trip? Or do I just let it go? She’ll only be here for a couple days before heading off to sleepaway camp, the one she’s been going to since she was ten, this time as a counselor. Do I want to waste what little time I have with her dredging up secrets and guilt? I don’t relish revisiting my role as bad cop. God, I really don’t.
I crash hard once I get home—emotional fatigue mixed with exhaustion from the concussion—and wake up hours later, groggy and sprawled out on the living room sofa, the kind of nap that leaves your limbs heavy and your mind murky. Still, I drag myself to Wagshal’s Market with a plan to pick up a few of Rachel’s favorites like chocolate Berger Cookies and a container of their chicken curry salad.
I park in front of the CVS next to Wagshal’s, still shaking off sleep, and I’m just swinging my legs out of the car when I see Holly Stone. She’s coming out of the store with her little boy trailing behind, a wiry kid who looks like he might be in first grade. Maybe second? Hard to tell. Ever since Zach and Rachelaged out of elementary school, I’ve lost my ability to guess kids’ ages.
I click the lock on my car and walk quickly over as she opens the back door of her SUV for her son.
“Hi,” I say cautiously. I know how young moms don’t like to be approached in public spaces. “I’m Caren Costa. You emailed me about the bracelet? I run the yard sale.”
She turns, eyes scanning my face before something clicks. “Oh yes, right. Hi.”
“My husband, Miguel, got the bracelet back to you okay?”
“He did. Thank you for responding.” Her smile is polite but forced. “Finally.”
“Finally?” I echo, confused.
She shuts the back door with a solid thunk and moves to open the driver-side door, clearly ready to end the conversation. But then she pauses and looks over her shoulder at me.
“You know you’re lucky we didn’t go to the police. My husband was urging me to call them. But I don’t have the time or the bandwidth.” She glances at her kid in the back seat in case I’m not getting it: She’s a busy mom with a young kid. “I’m just glad to have my bracelet back. But I was getting fed up with being blown off.”
The barely concealed hostility in her voice stuns me.
“Blown off? Who blew you off?”
Holly lets out a dry laugh. “I mean, how many emails do I have to send?”
I blink. “I only remember getting the one email.”
She shrugs, already halfway into the driver’s seat. “Well, either your email is broken or your memory sucks.”
The door slams with finality. I jump, just a bit, heart rateticking up. Her words sting. Did her emails fall into one of those memory gaps from Saturday night? No. If she’d emailed me last week, I would remember.
I tap on her window before I can stop myself. She rolls it down, eyebrows raised in annoyance.
“I’m sorry to keep bugging you, but are you sure it was me you contacted?” I ask. “Not the Facebook page?”
She sighs, all weary exasperation. “Look, I don’t know. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I DM’d the Facebook group, but who cares? The point is, I was patient. I reached out. More than once.”
She doesn’t wait for me to respond. Her engine revs, and I step back instinctively, the sidewalk catching the soles of my sandals as she peels out and drives off. Her SUV disappears down Massachusetts Avenue, leaving nothing behind but the faint smell of exhaust.
