Chapter Thirty
The morning after the Spring Fling is gray and foggy, a souvenir of a night of rain that started after the party ended.
Enveloped in Tom’s flannel robe, Diana stands in her kitchen, rolling the rock she took from Grace’s farm in her hand, rubbing her thumb along its rough texture and pointed end.
She hopes the rain began after the Spring Fling, imagining the tents filling with water and sequin-covered women hurrying home through the deluge.
Rain was definitely not on the invitation list.
She’s reaching for the coffeepot when, through the window, she sees a car slow down in front of her house. Diana freezes. The back of her neck prickles with anticipation, and she fears the people Tom warned her about are here again.
Wishing Duncan’s baseball bat were in the hall closet and not under her bed upstairs, Diana creeps to the front window.
Fully expecting to find a stranger in her yard, she instead sees a newspaper, wrapped in a blue plastic bag, fly out the car’s window.
“The paper,” she says, as relief floods her veins. “Get yourself together, Diana.”
She stuffs her bare feet into Duncan’s rain boots, her skin screeching in protest against the sleek rubber, and heads outside.
She crosses the wet grass to rescue the newspaper from a puddle along the walk, careful to avoid the unfurling hyacinths her mother and Phoebe planted last year.
She notices the buds on her magnolia tree, a promise of the beauty that will grace her yard in a few short weeks.
New life surrounds her. It’s not held back by unanswered questions, unreturned text messages, or uncertain relationships.
Everything keeps moving forward. The surety of this cycle of growth might have filled Diana with despair a year or two ago, as she anticipated Tom’s death and then struggled to live without him, but in this moment, it hits differently.
Now Diana sees possibility, and maybe even hope.
Tom’s letter has forced her to engage with the past in a way she avoided so completely after his death.
By looking backward, by trying to understand him better, she’s found that moving forward might not be as frightening as she once thought it would be.
Diana is halfway through the newspaper when her doorbell rings. A quick glance at her phone tells her it’s not even 8:00 a.m., but she has an idea who it is.
“I was on my way to the gym,” Jonathan says when she opens the front door. “I wondered if you have a minute.”
At her invitation, he steps into the foyer but declines her offer of coffee or to sit on the sofa. He thrusts a manila folder at her. “Tom’s letter,” he says. “You want it back because you don’t trust me.”
“I want it back”—Diana pauses briefly—“because it’s mine. I’m sorry about the money and that he kept secrets from you, too.”
“I’m not expecting that money to be returned. It’s in the past. I really believe that.”
“Maybe you can live without knowing what he was hiding,” Diana says, as she tucks the folder under her left arm. “I can’t.”
“It’s your choice,” he says, tiredly. This is the last time they’ll talk about the letter, and that’s for the best. “Since I’ve already explained to you about that money and Jessica O’Connor, I might as well tell you everything.”
Fear shoots through Diana, setting her body on high alert. “Tell me everything? What do you mean?” She reflexively steps forward, her right hand outstretched.
Jonathan backs up against the door, his arms crossed at his chest. She interprets his movement as self-protective, designed to keep a barrier between them.
He’ll stop talking, Diana intuits, if she gets too emotional.
She pulls her hand back to her body and drops her voice to a whisper. “What is it, Jonathan?”
He looks past her into the living room, at the fireplace, or perhaps through the French doors into the backyard. It doesn’t matter where; he just won’t look at her.
“When Tom sold the firm, he had some of his proceeds—I mean, some of your proceeds—sent to another person.” Jonathan swallows. “He asked me not to tell you about it. Made me promise, actually, that I’d never tell you.”
“Who?” Diana squeezes that folder between her hands. “It was Jessica O’Connor, wasn’t it?”
When he looks at her, she sees how much breaking his promise to Tom is killing him. She doesn’t care how much it hurts, though. She really couldn’t care less how bad Jonathan feels for telling her the truth.
“How much money was it?” When Tom told her about the sale of their ownership stake in the firm, Diana had been disappointed by the amount he and Jonathan had agreed upon; she’d expected more and told Tom so.
He explained that overhead and staff expenses, plus some client collections problems, had been a factor in the final numbers.
“This is a fair deal, Diana,” he said as he gave her the papers to sign. She believed him.
The vein along Jonathan’s brow pulses. “He really wanted this to be confidential.”
“So why are you telling me?”
“I didn’t realize Jessica might be involved in whatever that letter is”—he points to the folder she’s continued to twist and reshape—“until last night. Since you asked about her, it’s all I can think about.”
Diana really has to find Jessica. “Why didn’t you mention all of this when I came to your office?”
Jonathan shrugs. “I promised him, Diana.”
“Your promise to a dead man was more important than telling me the truth?”
“That’s not fair. He was my best friend. He asked for my help.”
Anger gathers under Diana’s skin. “I thought we were friends, too. How much did he give her?”
Jonathan hesitates.
“Come on, Jonathan. You came here with the express purpose of sharing this. Don’t chicken out now.”
Jonathan blinks at the harshness of her tone. He sticks his hands into his jacket pockets and clears his throat. “$250,000.”
“$250,000?” Diana repeats. “Why did he give it to her?”
“He didn’t explain. He wouldn’t explain. One of the last things he did at the firm was to set up a trust with her as the sole beneficiary. He asked me to wire the money into it when the sale was complete.”
“This is . . . I have no idea what to say about this.” A thick numbness settles over Diana’s limbs, the weight of this truth overwhelming her body.
The vein along Jonathan’s brow is pulsing even faster, and he presses his fingers against it, as if it’s possible to smooth down the telltale sign he’s upset.
“There’s something else I wanted to say.
You are my friend, Diana. And as your friend, I should have been around more, checking in on you and the kids.
Helping out. Lily, too. I got all caught up in my own stuff and kind of disappeared.
I let my discomfort over the missing money and the promise I made to Tom impact me more than I realized.
I’m sorry. I should have been a better support to you. ”
“Yes, you should have.”
Jonathan’s eyes widen. He must have thought she’d tell him everything’s okay, and she’s not disappointed in him, but honesty, Diana has learned, is best shared.
“Would Duncan like to catch a Celtics game with me sometime? Tom would have wanted me to be there for him. You and Phoebe, too.”
“I don’t think so, Jonathan.”
I’d let this all go and move on, he once told her.
Jonathan meant those words to dissuade her search into Tom’s past, but they apply better to the friendship they once shared.
She might have forgiven him had he not kept so much from her when she first asked for his help; she can’t find it in her to do that now.
He opens his mouth to say something, but stops himself, shaking his head. “Of course. I’m sorry I didn’t do more, Diana. If you change your mind, my offer will always stand.”
He leaves her house without waiting for her response, walking swiftly to his car. Diana watches him drive up the street, back to a life apart from her own.
Diana sends a second text to Jessica that morning: Hi there, Contacting you again to ask if we can meet. Or talk. I’d be grateful for any amount of time you can give me. Thank you, Diana Morgan. She attaches a snap of the photo Grace sent her; perhaps it will jog Jessica’s memory.
Three weeks go by without a response. During that time, Diana phones Jessica’s parents and leaves two voicemails asking for their help.
They don’t call back. Concerned she’s at an impasse, Diana begins to research private investigators.
She feels silly looking for a PI—that’s for fictional characters on television or in books, not real people like her—but at this point, Diana can’t say no to any option that will bring her closer to the truth, no matter how far it is outside of her comfort zone.
In the end, though, she doesn’t need to hire an investigator.
When Jessica’s text finally pops up on her screen, Diana is preparing lunch, slicing yellow peppers while watching Phoebe and Mira make slime at her kitchen table.
Through the open window, Duncan and Jadyn run drills on the playground court, swerving around one another and jumping up to toss the ball into the basket.
I knew Tom. What do you want?
Right to the point, Diana thinks, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. I can do that, too.
I need you to tell me about the fire.
Diana waits. Blue dots bubble on the screen.
“Mama?”
“One second.”
Why are you asking me?
Grace says you might have information and that you might be willing to help me.
Phoebe continues to talk, but her words stay in the background, fuzzy and unclear, as Diana clenches the phone and wills Jessica to write again.
Saturday. Noon. I’ll text you where in a few days.
Thank you. I really appreciate this.
“I’m hungry,” Duncan says, entering through the back door with Jadyn at his heels.
“Can I stay for lunch?” Mira asks.
“Me too?” asks Jadyn. “My mom said I can.”
“We’re having veggie burgers. Mira, I’ll tell your mom you’re joining us.” Diana sends a fast text to Lakshmi. “Girls, clean up that slime, and all of you, wash your hands.” Diana puts her hand in her pocket and rubs her thumb against what she’s come to think of as Grace’s rock. Soon, she thinks.
The night before she’s scheduled to meet Jessica, as Diana lies awake, watching the minutes click by on the bedside clock, she remembers another night in this bed.
It was about a month after Tom’s diagnosis, and she could see he was changing, pulling away.
All she wanted was to keep him here, make it so he could stay with her.
She turned over, and he grabbed her, pulling her across the bed and into his arms. He’d stopped shaving, so when he kissed her, his stubble chafed her chin. His body threw off such heat, such life; how could he be sick?
They paused only to remove their clothes.
Neither spoke as he rolled on top of her.
She clasped his increasingly angular, thin body, enveloping him with her curves, her vitality.
If only I can make him well, Diana thought as tears slid down her cheeks.
Tom licked the wetness away and gently kissed along her eyebrows, down to her cheekbones, then to her mouth again, urgently this time.
She ran her fingers down his back, his skin smooth under her touch.
He shifted to look at her, and he kept her gaze as he entered her, his eyes full of love.
She buried her face in the crook of his neck, inhaling his snowfall-tinged scent, promising herself she’d remember.
It was the last time they made love.
Now, alone in their bed, her hands empty, she wishes again they had more time. That he trusted her with all of himself.
And she wonders what Jessica will tell her.