“Thank you very much, sir,” Sophie says, opting for tea. To Barbara, she says, “It’s so cozy in here. I’ve missed this.” The kitchen is warm, and the counter is speckled with flour. A window is cracked so they can hear the birds, who seem thrilled that the sun is shining. Barbara slides a tray of homemade lemon curd and freshly whipped butter onto the table.
“Barbara is teaching me to bake,” says Gael. He looks like he’s never seen a spread like this in his life, and she is struck with how much he looks like Elena. The same thick black hair, the same deepbrown eyes. And yet he has an easygoing, jovial personality she doesn’t recognize.
Joey notices too, his use of Barbara’s first name. They’ve all called her that ever since Joey made the mistake of calling her Mrs. Winter one morning when they were kids.“Oh, use my first name, honey,”she said.“It was a gift from my mother.”She was not one of those first-name moms who tried to get in on the gossip or put in her two cents about who she thought wascuteat school. That was more Joey’s mom. Barbara was a mother hen, a collector of friends and the busiest woman alive. Someone who would wrap you in a hug and listen, no questions asked, but who would also then spearhead antibullying training at school on your behalf.
Joey feels her molars grinding. Of course she would compare her own mother to Barbara, even though she has no delusions that hers was so maternal. Joey’s mom seemed so young, sometimes more like a sister than a mother, all the way up to the end. But god, Joey loved her.
From somewhere in the house, Elena emerges. Her hair is styled in beach waves that look effortless but likely required at least twenty minutes in front of the mirror. Joey notices the wet smell of shampoo wafting down from upstairs, the two extra pairs of shoes by the front door, and the white cross-body bag hanging on a hook, and she feels an instant twinge of irritation. “I didn’t realize you were staying here,” she says. The words are out before she can check them.
“Oh, awkward. Sorry.” Elena makes a little oopsie face to show that Joey’s comment has made her mildly uncomfortable. “Now you know, I guess.” She grabs a coffee mug from a rack beneath the cabinets.
“I was more than happy to open my home up to Elena and Gael,” Barbara says over Joey’s shoulder, “just as I would be more than happy to do it for either of you.” She wipes her hands and pats Joey on the arm as if to say, “and that is that.”
“Of course, we know that,” says Sophie.
But Joey feels bruised. She knows Elena probably stayed in touch with Barbara on Barbara’s insistence and that she has no right to be jealous. Maybe she wishes things had been different between them, that they could have banded together after Quinn died, not scattered. Joey lets herself picture Quinn here now, sitting across from her, telling her not to let Elena get under her skin, laughing as she dips a finger into the curd and then licks it clean.
“Good,” Barbara chirps. “Chelsea buns will be ready in five minutes.”
“Bless you.” Sophie gives Barbara a look of such gratitude, it looks like she might be considering staying forever. Elena pours herself some coffee. The smell fills the room, and the moment seems to pass. Imaginary Quinn disappears.
“So Gael says he’s been taking pictures around town,” Barbara says, patting him on the shoulder.
“He’s pretty good,” Elena says, and Joey detects a small glint of pride in her eye. “But he is completely obsessed.”
“I am,” he says as he swallows down some orange juice. Then he grabs a camera from the counter and holds it up to his face, pointing it directly at them. A few speedy clicks, before they even have time to smile, and then he examines his work.
They settle into the silence. Morning sunlight floats around the oven-warmed room. Maybe it’s the way they all seem so at ease right now, in this familiar kitchen, or maybe it’s the soft jazz playing on the speaker or the smell of something baking. It’s at odds with the restlessness inside Joey, with the reminder that the trees wanted her to know something about Quinn.
“Barbara, can I ask you something?” Joey’s interruption is louder than she intends it to be. Everyone looks at her.
Barbara is alerted by the change in energy. She flips a kitchen towel over her shoulder and tilts her head to the side in concern. “Everythingokay?”
Back in the day, when Joey asked the questions no one wanted to hear, she was not taken seriously. And rightly so. She was a nervous kid whose ideas about corroboration and timelines and alibis came from watchingNCIS. But despite being the subject of town gossip, just asking the questions gave her a strange buzz, like one piece of an interrogation might lead somewhere. It never did, of course. But right now, she feels an ounce of that old buzz again.
“How much do you believe Tom’s alibi?” The words spill out of her.
There’s a palpable silence after the wordalibi. And with it, the kitchen’s cottagey warmth chills slightly. Barbara frowns. Gael looks up from his camera. Sophie and Elena both take longer than normal sips.
Fifteen years ago, Joey spoke to Tom Winter while he sat at the bar in the Strike. Her obstinate glare dared the bartender—still Ken, even back then—to kick her out. He didn’t, even though he knew she was underage. She didn’t order anything, and she didn’t make small talk. She just watched Quinn’s dad tap his ring against his glass over and over again while she asked him where he had been the night of her death. He didn’t make a single sound except for the clinking of metal on glass, and her only thought at the time was,You’re divorced. Why are you still wearing your wedding ring?
Barbara slides into a seat and looks Joey in the eye. “If you’re asking whether I believe he was at poker the night Quinn died, then, yes, I do. He is a lot of things, but a good liar is not one of them.”
“Joey, his friends vouched for him,” Sophie adds quietly.
Barbara squints. “Why do I think that’s not the answer you were looking for?”
Joey shrugs, deciding how to respond. It’s not the answer she wanted, but what does she want? She can’t go into detail about Quinn’s words in the woods. Not with Barbara. But she can’t pretend everything’sfine either.
“You weren’t living with him at the time, so how can you be sure?”
Sophie examines her drink like it’s going to somehow save them all from this awkwardness. Elena and Gael, on the other hand, can’t seem to look away. Barbara puts up two palms in her defense. “Yes,” she says. “That’s fair. You’re right about that. Idon’tknow for sure. But listen, I’d like to say one thing. You called it an alibi. Honey, even though I appreciate you still caring about what happened to our girl—I do, so much—it was an accident. There is no such thing as an alibi for an accident. I’m sorry. It does no good to keep these vengeful thoughts in your head. Quinn wouldn’t want you to worry so much about it. Miss her, yes. Love her, yes. But don’t suffer for some answer that’s not going to come.” She stretches a hand across the table. It doesn’t quite reach Joey’s, but the sentiment is there.
“You know, I used to think—” Barbara cuts herself off and brushes crumbs from her chest. “It’s really nothing, and it’s probably just hindsight, but I think Quinn worried about her father too much. I should have made her see there was nothing she could do about his alcoholism. A child shouldn’t have to help their parents. That’s not how it’s supposed to work. But she had this insatiable need to save the world and everyone in it.” She twirls her finger around in a circle.
Collectively, they breathe, and it feels as if Quinn is really sitting here with them, so spot-on is Barbara’s characterization of her. Melancholy mixes with their anxiety and floats around them like dust motes. They’ve stirred latent bereavement debris, and it’s irritating their noses and eyes. Gael reaches out a hand and puts it on top of Barbara’s. Gael, the only child in the room and the only one who never knew Quinn. It’s a gesture so unexpected, it makes Joey’s throat constrict.
“Tom has a good heart,” she continues. “Though it may be deep,deep down. Please don’t go digging there again. You’ll only unravel a man who is threadbare already.”
