Chapter 9
“Attention, all passengers for Phoenix,” the amplified voice stilled the waiting area into silence, then Tessa saw every passenger go into action; stashing phones, closing laptops, hoisting totes onto roller bag handles, edging toward the gate.
Dozens of people with one goal, to get on the plane as soon as they could.
“We request that you stay seated until your boarding group is called.”
No one obeyed.
Tessa felt the vibe of the surging group and yanked her charging cord from the wall. The man across from her, the one reading her book, hadn’t seemed to notice her. Good.
The first-class passengers boarded, privileged and brisk, Tessa creating stories about each of them.
The kid with the shock of khaki hair and earbuds was an affluent teen coming home from boarding school.
Two hand-holding gray-haired lovebirds, standing as close together as they possibly could, maybe a honeymoon?
Several frowning executives, briefcased and self-absorbed.
They were headed for meetings, their careers at stake.
She’d made up stories since she was an only child growing up in the “middle of nowhere,” as her mother had always dismissed Ohio, with her chronic wheedling to convince her father to move them somewhere “more appropriate.” They’d fought bitterly, with every conversation a negotiation, every element of their existence part of an ongoing bargain, until her father had bargained his way out of their lives, basically, as her mother archly explained later, purchasing his freedom from their “unendurable” family situation, and left them behind.
By then Tessa had retreated into her imagination, where there was no such place as nowhere. And no one could be left behind.
When The Bad Thing happened—how her mother always referred to it, as if clarity were too unbearable—Tessa, Theresa Mattigan, back then, had been younger than Linny.
But the fallout from her catastrophic decision that afternoon, plus the outrage from her mother’s horrified and heartbroken boyfriend, and vengeful, whispered scorn from judgmental neighbors, impelled her mother to flee their hometown and move the two of them east to Massachusetts.
Her mother had changed their names, too, eradicating the past. What could not be erased: Even her preteen self knew her mother blamed her, hated her, for “ruining”—her mother’s word—her mother’s life.
Theresa, newly and legally “Tessa Danforth,” had lived even more profoundly in her own imagination then, stashing the bad thing, burying it, as if time and desire could erase it.
When Tessa was fourteen, her mother revealed that Daddy—Tessa had no idea where he lived—had made a “killing” in the stock market, a term that Tessa conjured into a dark story of greed and power.
But as a result, even more money arrived from her father, and Tessa learned the terms alimony and child support and investment funds .
Tessa’s mother moved them again, to a fancier town closer to Boston.
Mom’s complaining stopped. Her investments and new real estate company flourished.
Tessa buried herself in books, existing in other people’s lives.
The next two summers, though, during high school vacation, they’d rented a cabin—that’s what Mother called it, but it had been far from rustic—in Blytheton, in upstate Maine.
Her still-single mother had insisted it was good for her “social connections,” and Tessa had no choice but to go.
Turned out, Mount Desert Island and its charming villages seemed almost a fairy tale come to life, with freedom, finally, and miraculously, a friend.
A summer friend, sure, but an instant friend, a passionate, book-loving, soul-baring friend. Emily.
This is the forest primeval , one of them would say. And the response, from Longfellow’s “Evangeline”—they’d both cried over it, the romantic tragedy set in this very place— the murmuring pines and the hemlocks. And the two of them knew they were special.
That second summer unfolded, with boys, sometimes, and clandestine beer, sometimes, and pestering greenflies, and rum raisin ice cream at the counter. Tessa had told Emily, one shimmering summer afternoon, legs hanging over the town pier, about the bad thing.
She did not say she’d been Theresa Mattigan back then, or where it happened.
“That’s why we moved,” Tessa had said.
Emily had taken her hand. “Because you were still scared?”
Tessa had felt the warmth of Emily’s touch, seen her chipped bright-pink fingernails.
Emily’s mom had died the summer before, and her father quickly remarried.
Emily had her own troubles, but she looked at Tessa that night as if she were the only person in the world.
Soulmates, and sixteen, all their dreams ahead of them.
“Well, no. We moved because everyone blamed me.” In the distance, a fish leaped from the water, or maybe it was a mermaid. “Hated me. Everyone. Even my mother.”
Emily had frowned, considering. “That seems unfair. It wasn’t really your fault, was it? What happened to the other girl?”
“We still don’t know,” she’d said. Back then it had still been a mystery.
“She was such a cool person, you know? I still remember how kind she was to me, geeky, dumb me. I know she had her own stuff to do but she’d always be, like, you can do it, you can accomplish whatever you want.
She even wanted to be the mayor, like her father.
I still think about her. All the time. The mayor’s daughter, you know? Is probably dead. And all because I…”
“How old were you? Like, ten? It wasn’t your fault. You were like, a baby.”
“Didn’t matter.” Their silence had surrounded them. “Like I said, everyone hated me. They still do, I bet. My mother def does.”
She’d turned to Emily, beseeching. “Don’t tell. Not ever. Not anyone.” She still remembered the inherent power of her revelation. The danger. “Promise. And promise you don’t hate me, too.”
“This is the forest primeval.” Emily had invoked their private mantra. “I promise.”
“The whispering pines and the hemlocks.” Tessa believed Emily. Her best friend would never tell.
Later that night, it all changed.
They never went to Maine again. And Emily vanished from her life. Tessa had commandeered her imagination to handle that, too, childhood’s end, editing and reshaping that bewildering series of events into a story she could live with. The story she lived now.
And solidifying her core belief that revealing her past would ruin her future. She’d told Emily. Emily was gone. She could never tell anyone again.
“Group two passengers are welcome to board.” The voice over the PA system incited another mini-stampede toward the gate.
The man in the airport carrying her book was focused on his phone, pale blue Oxford shirt and effortless jeans, her book tucked into an outside pocket of his carry-on. Advertising exec, she theorized, reading All This and trying to plumb the female psyche.
Or, imagine, he could be simply reading it, Annabelle said.
Tessa approached the gate, showing her boarding pass.
“Welcome,” the agent said. Her bright red lipstick was flawless, eyelashes extravagant.
Tessa placed her barcode over the reader, but the agent was tapping on her computer. Tessa heard a whir, and a paper boarding pass popped up. The agent handed it to her, leaning closer. “We’ve upgraded you to 3B, Ms. Calloway. We’re all massive fans.”
“Well, thank you.” Tessa felt her eyes widen with this unexpected treat. “That’s—wonderful.”
“So are you,” the agent whispered. “Have the champagne.”
Tessa, conscious that people were in line behind her, touched a palm to her heart. “You have completely made my day,” she said, as she wheeled her suitcase away.
A few clicks of a mouse, and this agent had given her a seat worth hundreds of dollars. All because Tessa wrote a book.
She yanked her bag over the gap between jetway and plane, seeing her new seat steps away, 3B, the aisle. The window seat was empty.
Tessa dumped her tote bag on her seat, and hoisted her suitcase to the compartment above. First class, and room for her suitcase and a row by herself? Sometimes early morning flying was a good thing. She stowed her bag under the seat in front, then slid the phone from the pocket.
“Sweetheart? It’s me.” She kept her voice low as she heard Henry’s groggy hello. “Did I wake you?”
Six o’clock at home, and the kids would be up, Linny at least, and looking for breakfast. If Henry didn’t take charge, it’d be a disaster of sugary cereal and spilled milk.
She pictured their kitchen-in-progress, the Swedish dishwasher Henry insisted “she” have, and remembered the fancy cabinets with glassed-in doors. “Is everything okay?”
“Everything is always okay, honey.” Tessa heard Henry’s voice change, maybe he was sitting up, blinking, regrouping from sleep. She had seen him do that so many times, his hair spiking up on one side, eyes not quite focusing. “It’s early. Where are you?”
“Guess. Let’s FaceTime.” It would be fun to show him first class. The plush navy-blue leather seats, the voluptuous headrests, her full view of the still-open cockpit.
“Too early for FaceTime. What’s—”
“I’m upgraded. First class. They’re about to bring me champagne. How about that ?” Tessa was aware she was whispering; she didn’t want to seem goofy, or gloating to passengers headed to the back of the plane. But she was allowed to be happy. “And guess what else I’m celebrating?”
“It’s too early to guess.”
Passengers were still filing by her, a twentysomething in ripped jeans and an Indy 500 T-shirt, a man carrying a creature in a screened cage.
“Ma’am?” A voice at her shoulder.
She looked up. And of course. If she were writing the story, it’s exactly what would have happened.
“I’m 3A.” The man with her book gestured toward the empty seat beside her.
“Oh, I’m—” Tessa stood, and bumped her head on the still-open overhead compartment. “Ow.”
“Careful.” He slid past her, stashed his carry-on. “Those bins can be predatory.”
“True,” she said, and then, somehow, dropped her phone onto the thin carpeting of the narrow aisle.
“Tessa?” Henry’s voice came from the floor.
“You all right?” The man was about her age, Tessa calculated. Older.
“Sure,” she said, stooping to pick up the phone. “Hang on,” she said to Henry. “I needed to—”
“Ms. Calloway?” The flight attendant had come up beside her, holding a stack of napkins and a ballpoint pen. “Something to drink? And you, sir?” She looked at 3A as Tessa, phone in hand and Henry’s tinny voice coming from the speaker, attempted to gracefully sit down again.
“Oh, nothing, thank you,” Tessa said, clicking on her seat belt. She wished the attendant hadn’t said her name so distinctly, but too late for that now.
“You sure?” the man said. “I was thinking of champagne. And it’s way too early to drink it alone.”