Chapter Four
If Diana were to make a list of what she loves about her job as the assistant director of Alcott Memorial Library, at the top would be the library itself: the way the building smells, like stories yet to be told, or the unturned pages of a brand-new book.
She loves how walking through the doors fills her with a sense of familiarity and safety, and how the library, after all these years, still seems like magic.
To Diana, the library is the heart of Alcott.
Senior citizens return their books in the mornings, gathering by the circulation desk, while in the late afternoon, teenagers camp out at the wooden tables on the lower level to finish their homework.
Diana remembers visiting the library with her mother when she was a child, and that she works here now reminds her both how rapidly time speeds by and how the past has only just happened.
Ninety minutes later, Diana sits at her desk, sipping the coffee Lakshmi gave her, now room temperature, and listening to her stomach growl. She should have taken Lakshmi’s advice and eaten that banana on the drive to work. She also should have remembered to bring in the banana from her car.
The meeting, thankfully, went well, though Diana makes a mental note to avoid scheduling early-morning appointments again. Her guilt about the way she interacted with both of her children this morning gnaws at her. Hopefully, all she needs is a good night’s sleep to parent better tomorrow.
Yet sleep alone can’t fix the real reason she snapped at Phoebe.
Despite her vow to not think about the letter, halfway through her meeting, it crept back into her thoughts. Ignoring it, Diana understands, will be impossible. Without the truth, she’ll worry about Tom’s secret and obsess about all he might have done.
The only option is to decipher this strange, unsettling news. She has to figure out what Tom was really trying to tell her. The letter is more than a vague warning about unknown people. Or, at least, it has to be . . . right?
What’s the first step people take on those British crime shows when they’re charged with solving a mystery? They call in a smart detective with a charming accent. She doesn’t have one of those, so Google will have to suffice.
Diana wakes up her computer and navigates to her internet browser. She enters “Thomas Morgan” + crime into the search bar and hits Return.
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 in conversation 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 pepper grinder 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?”
As Vivian describes the luncheon she’s due to attend with an old college friend, the errands that will follow, and a Zumba class she’s eager to try at the senior center, Diana remembers a moment, a few months after Tom’s funeral, when she overheard her mother and sister whispering in her kitchen.
Diana stood in the shadows on her stairs, bare feet pressed against the cool wooden floor, as they discussed what to do about her unrelenting sadness.
“It’s gone too far,” Andrea said. “She needs inpatient treatment.”
“A hospital?” Vivian said, her voice breaking.
“It won’t be long, Mom. A few weeks at the most.”
Vivian began to weep. “We have to help her, but a hospital stay would be disruptive to the children. I . . . I don’t know how to make this better for them.”
Her mother’s pain was a weight Diana hadn’t expected.
It made her see, for the first time, what her descent into grief was doing to everyone around her.
She decided then to hide her feelings, letting them emerge only when she was alone.
She began right away, forcing herself to change out of the pajamas she’d worn for the past five days and shower.
She cried as she blow-dried her hair and made her bed, but when she came downstairs to help make dinner, Diana was clear-eyed and somehow managed to stay upright.
Her mother declared “she’d turned a corner,” and her family eagerly embraced this pretend Diana, a fantasy she’s kept going ever since.
So ingrained is she in this pretense that Diana doesn’t tell her mother about Tom’s letter, opting to keep this development to herself.
After her mother leaves, Diana spends the rest of the afternoon preparing next year’s budget, approving licenses for more young adult e-books, and answering overdue emails.
Another time, she would have described the day as productive; today it feels more like procrastination.
When the clock turns to 5:00 p.m., she reluctantly heads out, already wishing it were tomorrow.
After a drive she can’t remember making, Diana arrives home, parking in her driveway and listening as her car pings and hums as it shuts down.
Like most nights, she hasn’t planned ahead for dinner, so she’ll most likely fall back on what she secretly refers to as “the widow’s special”: dumping a box of pasta into boiling water and waiting impatiently for it to cook, as a jar of tomato sauce burns across the stove.
Her phone beeps with a text from Evan: Hope Duncan’s feeling better. Too bad he had to miss the basketball clinic. Give a call if you need anything.
Feeling better? What’s wrong with Duncan?
Before she can act on Evan’s message, an alarm on her phone sounds, reminding her that she’s due to collect Phoebe from her after-school program.
Diana walks across the street to the elementary school, where Phoebe is waiting at the side door with her bag packed and coat zipped.
She is not the last child to be picked up, though she has been plenty of times before.
As Diana waves to the after-school coordinator, Phoebe barrels into her arms, nearly knocking the two of them over. “Mama, I’m happy to see you.”
“I’m happy to see you, too,” Diana says, rescuing Phoebe’s hair from where it’s stuck in her coat collar.
Phoebe’s face shines up at Diana, and for an instant, bathed in her daughter’s love, Diana forgets about Tom’s letter, work, her ongoing grief, and stress.
She stares at her daughter, as if meeting her for the first time.
The elements that make up Phoebe’s face come into clear focus: the swell of her cheeks, the beauty mark under her left eye, the curve of her upper lip.
This is what matters, Diana thinks, kissing the top of Phoebe’s head.
“Let’s go home,” Phoebe says, impatiently tugging at Diana’s hand. “Bear Bear doesn’t want to be alone anymore.”
When they cross the street into their yard, Lakshmi comes out on her front porch. “Do you want to join us for dinner?” She gestures into her house. “I have enough.”
Diana does want to go inside, more than anything. She needs to tell someone about the letter, and Lakshmi may be the only person in her life who will be able to hold conflicting ideas of Tom in her mind, remembering the man independent of his secret.
But that will have to wait. Diana needs to track down Duncan.
“Mama.” Phoebe tugs at her arm.
“Not tonight, Lax. Let’s catch up tomorrow? After Phoebe goes to bed? I’ll bring the wine.”
“Of course. Ramesh will be in DC.” Lakshmi tightens her fleece against her body. “I could use the company.”
The house is dark when they enter, and as Phoebe chats about her day, Diana flips on light switches and hangs up their coats. “Duncan?” she calls out.
She’s met with silence, but she has a feeling he’s nearby and something is wrong.
“Pheebs, I’m going upstairs for a minute.”
“I have to get Bear Bear. I left him in my room.”
“I’ll bring him down for you, honey. You unpack your backpack in the kitchen.”
When Diana steps onto the upstairs landing, she hears a sniffle.
Duncan’s room is empty, the bed still unmade from his morning rush to school, his laundry basket on its side in the corner, socks and boxers in a heap on the floor.
It takes a moment—seconds, really—for Diana to realize where he is.
She sprints down the hall, past Phoebe’s bedroom, the window seat her father built for them, the bathroom the kids share, and into her bedroom.
That’s where she finds Duncan, crumpled on the floor, clutching Tom’s letter.