Chapter Thirty-Three
Present
Quinn blows through the door in a full-length caramel-colored cashmere coat and a matching scarf wrapped around her neck several times so that only her nose and eyes are exposed.
It has been well over a year since we have been together, and upon seeing me, my highly respected law partner of a best friend squeals like she’s ten and has just been handed a puppy.
Quinn jumps into my arms, hugging me in an embrace that feels like coming home.
Despite the boost of dopamine, I am in desperate need of a carafe of crappy coffee after my life-altering evening and then a red-eye.
The first few minutes together we trade compliments and criticisms back and forth as only forever friends can do.
We each praise the other for looking great, followed by noticing new gray hairs here and there along with additional sprouted crow’s feet.
Quinn claims to love my eggplant-hued velour two-piece travel attire, even as she stands statuesque in her pressed charcoal-gray pinstripe Prada suit.
“My God, I’ve missed you! But not for much longer,” Quinn pulls me in for another hug and then holds me by the shoulders, not about to let go.
“Leslie and Elizabeth came over for a drink last night. They absolutely loved the Christmas letter you submitted, and they were super impressed by your exposé on women’s health care in Bangladesh.
That opinion piece on why the chairman of the Federal Reserve is actually the most powerful person in the world .
. . also loved. And by ‘loved,’ I mean you really showcased for them that you can research, report, and write on it all.
Leslie liked you from the initial phone call, but Elizabeth wasn’t on it, so she was still skeptical since your work experience is, well, let’s call it spotty. ”
“Is that what we’re pretending to call nonexistent these days?
” I know Quinn is trying to keep my spirits and my confidence high going into my meeting.
If I’m heading back into the news, I need to buck the current trend of spreading disinformation and rage from facts, not fiction.
And since I can’t sell Elizabeth on my depth of experience, I’m going to have to do quite the sales job on my modern middle-age potential to emulate the memorably trustful Walter Cronkite, minus the turkey waddle.
“Well, I’m confident they’re going to give you a job offer after you meet with Elizabeth—at least, that’s what Leslie whispered in my ear on her way out last night.
You’re coming home, Callie Kingman! You’re finally coming home!
” Quinn squeals again and dances around in a tight 360 between me and the hangry customers waiting behind her, eager to be seated.
“Two.” I hold up my fingers to the hostess, and she grabs our menus, clueless that we have the long-standing offerings memorized.
“Aren’t you excited?” Quinn wants to know, and slides into her side of the booth.
I know her question is rhetorical. The table is still damp from being wiped down with a germy rag, so I take our thin paper napkins to soak up the remaining drips.
In case I have to drop my forehead onto the Formica in exhaustion after I tell Quinn about Porter, I want a clean place to land.
“I am excited,” I answer, the pitch of my voice too high. I can tell from Quinn’s puckered lips that she’s not convinced.
“Don’t you dare back out on coming home, Callie.
Sell the house, move in with me, get a job.
We’ve had this plan since Thomas went poof.
The job potentially coming first is an added bonus we both weren’t expecting.
” Quinn gives me a ta-da hand gesture to punctuate her point.
“Alice and Jack have moved into their apartment, and you are moving into mine. I do not want to be rattling around that prewar three-bedroom all by myself to become a little old lady who’s losing it. ”
I raise my eyebrows at Quinn.
“Sorry, no offense to Helen.”
“None taken. She spends her days eating sugar in all digestible forms and watching porn. In the grand scheme of things, losing it has made my mom way more fun.”
“Well, you know what I mean. We’ve grown up together, and now we are meant to grow old together. You and me.”
First, we were four. Then we were three. And for the past two decades, it has only been Quinn and me. With the return of Porter, are we about to be three again?
I reach across the table for Quinn’s hands. Her pleading expression doesn’t change, but she willingly places both her hands in mine. “I have to tell you something, Quinn.”
“Don’t you dare tell me you have cancer, Callie Kingman.
Don’t you dare.” I see the tears well up in Quinn’s eyes before my lips have parted.
Divorce and cancer seem to be the most common news headlines among our contemporaries these days.
Since I have already covered divorce, I understand how this is Quinn’s go-to guess when I insisted on breakfast at Tom’s before my necessary post-red-eye shower and nap.
“Quinn,” I begin, searching for the rest of my sentence.
“Are John and Andrew okay?” Quinn panics. I realize that what I have to tell her is not necessarily devastating at the level we have come to know at our age and stage in life. It’s just straight-up shocking, so I better spill it before Quinn’s cortisol spikes any further.
“I don’t have cancer and the boys are fine. It’s about my date with Chap,” I continue, but Quinn cuts me off before I can tell her any more.
“Don’t worry, we can find you another boy toy in New York.
Easy.” Now that I am right here with her, Quinn waves away any talk of a date that took place thousands of miles away in which she was so invested less than forty-eight hours ago.
She blows a foggy breath on the spotted silverware and wipes it on the arm of her blazer as if she’s cleaning her reading glasses.
“Young handsome guys are everywhere. I’ll find you one of the first-year associates in my office. There’s this kid, Duncan, he’s—”
Now it’s my turn to cut Quinn off. “Turns out the date wasn’t with Chap. It was with Porter.”
Quinn’s fork clanks onto the table and spins to the floor.
“Wait. What?”
“You heard me.”
“What do you mean, Porter? Like, Porter, Porter?”
“I mean Porter was there at the table when I walked up.” Quinn’s fallen face is what I imagine mine must have looked like at The Firehouse Restaurant.
No amount of filler could pick it back up.
I turn the side of my mouth up a tad to confirm the answer to Quinn’s question.
I’ve had thirty-six hours to prepare for the befuddlement that is plastered across Quinn’s face, but I, too, remain bewildered by what transpired.
It’s as if one of the countless number of dreams I have had featuring Porter’s grand return to me came true.
Until now, I’ve only ever awakened in disappointment.
“But. I mean. How? After all this time. How? Where? Where has he been?”
It occurs to me that I never told Quinn Chap’s last name.
I was about to on the phone the night of Alice’s engagement, but with my sieve of a menopausal memory, I forgot among all the long-distance hoopla of the evening, and I’m glad I did.
I could have ruined what was a celebratory night for Quinn and Alice.
“Turns out Porter has lived in Sacramento longer than I have. He’s been right there every day. ”
Quinn’s face sets in a hard expression, and her thumb plays with the gold wedding band she had sized down and now wears on her right-hand pinkie. Charles is always with her. I can’t tell if she’s trying to hold back a well of emotion, a rant, or if she doesn’t believe me.
I still can’t believe that I sat across from Porter Beaumont after thirty years of wondering, What if?
And in all those years of wondering, how is it that I never worked out what I would say if given another opportunity to see him?
I can’t believe I was caught without words to rip into Porter.
While other passengers slept as we flew over Reno, Indianapolis, and Hartford, I scribbled down a list of things I wished I had said to Porter, had I not been ambushed.
With my cross-country, fine-tuned one-liners in hand, I desperately wanted a Porter redo but would now have to settle for sharing my sound bites and biting sounds with Quinn.
“Did he know about Charles?” Quinn asks meekly.
“He did,” I answer. “From their football coach.” Quinn’s eyes dart around the restaurant. I can sense the heat of panic radiating from her side of the booth.
Given the happiness and celebration of Alice’s wedding week, I was hesitant to tell Quinn about Porter.
I considered waiting until the kids were off on their honeymoon and Quinn and I were huddled up, hungover on her couch, but I knew there was no way I could keep this information to myself.
Neither of us deserved to be kept in the dark any longer.
And even if I had tried to shield her, she would have suspected something was up and nagged me until I told her anyway.
“Why didn’t he come to Charles’s service?”
“That was the first thing I asked,” I assure Quinn, and give her a moment for the tears she has been holding back to roll down her cheeks.
“He was there, Quinn. He watched the whole thing from the back of the church. He was there for Charles. For you.” Out of concern for Quinn’s feelings, I aim to soften the details, even while I still bristle at the facts.
Quinn nods her head yes and releases a large breath upward to dry her eyes.
“Is that why you called me in the middle of the night?” she asks, reaching over to the empty booth behind us to grab another napkin and wipe her nose.
“Yeah.”