Valerie
She is browsing the shelves at Wellesley Booksmith, while Charlie is at his piano lesson, when she hears her phone vibrate in her bag. Her heart jumps with the dim, unrealistic hope that it could be him, as she balances three novels under her arm and reaches inside her bag to check the caller ID. An unfamiliar local number lights up her screen, and although it could be just about anyone, she has the cold gut feeling that it is her. Tessa.
Everything in her signals a flight instinct, warns her not to answer, and yet she does, whispering a hushed hello into her phone.
She hears a woman’s low, nervous voice say hello back to her, and now she is certain. She takes a gulp of air, desperate for more oxygen, as one of her books tumbles to the floor, landing spine up, pages bent and splayed. A teenaged girl standing near her stoops to pick it up, handing it to Valerie with a smile.
The voice on the other line asks, “Is this Valerie Anderson?”
“Yes,” Valerie replies, filled with fear and guilt. She glances around for a chair, and upon seeing none, sits cross-legged on the threadbare carpet, bracing herself for whatever is to come, knowing she deserves the worst.
“We’ve never met. . . My name is Tessa,” the woman continues. “Tessa Russo. I’m Nick Russo’s wife.”
Valerie replays the word wife, over and over, squeezing her eyes shut, seeing a kaleidoscope of color as she concentrates on breathing.
“I ... I was wondering . . . if we could meet?” she asks without menace or malice, only a trace of melancholy, which makes Valerie feel that much worse.
She swallows and with great reluctance replies, “Okay. Sure. When?”
“Could you do it now?” Tessa asks.
Valerie hesitates, feeling sure she should prepare for this meeting the way she prepares for trials, with intense, careful attention to detail. Yet she knows the anticipation would be excruciating—for both of them—so she simply says yes.
“Thank you,” Tessa says. And then, “Where?”
“I’m at Wellesley Booksmith . . . Would you like to come meet me here?” she says, wishing she had worn a nicer outfit, and bothered to run a brush through her hair, then realizing this is probably a good thing.
Valerie listens to a silence so thick that she wonders if Tessa hung up or muted the phone until she hears, “Okay. Yes. I’ll be right over.”
And now she waits. She waits in the front of the store, next to the shelves of greeting cards and wrapping paper, staring past a window display onto Central Street, a hundred, disjointed thoughts spinning in her head. She waits for fifteen, then twenty, then thirty minutes as a dozen or more women walk through the door. She remains convinced that none is Tessa until this second when this woman walks in. A woman who, very clearly, has not come to shop for books.
Valerie studies her hungrily, memorizing the way she unbuttons her long camel coat, exposing an elegant yet understated ensemble of slim black pants, an ivory crewneck sweater, and matte gold flats. She admires her thick, honey-colored hair that falls to her shoulders in soft waves, and features that are vivid and strong, unlike so many of the generic beauties populating Wellesley. If she is wearing makeup at all, Valerie decides, it’s the subtlest of applications, although her full lips are shiny with peach gloss.
The woman glances furtively around the store, somehow missing Valerie upon first scan despite how close they are standing. Then, suddenly, their eyes lock. Valerie’s heart stops, and she considers running out the door. Instead, she takes a step forward, no longer protected by the buffer of greeting cards.
“Tessa?” Valerie says, a chill running up her spine.
The woman nods, then extends her arm, offering her hand. Valerie takes it, her heart aching as she feels her smooth, warm skin and catches a whiff of a citrus fragrance.
As their hands fall to their sides again, Tessa swallows and says, “Can we go find a place to sit down?”
Valerie nods, having already scoped out a table in the back children’s section, saving it with her puffy parka and stash of books. She turns and walks toward it now, and seconds later, the two women are seated across from one another.
“So,” Tessa says. “Hello.”
“Hello,” Valerie echoes, her throat dry and palms wet.
Tessa starts to speak, then stops, then begins again. “How’s Charlie?” she asks, with such genuine concern that for one hopeful second Valerie thinks that she has it all wrong—and that Tessa is only here to check on her husband’s patient.
But as Valerie replies that Charlie is doing much better, thank you for asking, she sees Tessa’s lower lip quiver tellingly. And Valerie knows that she knows.
“Good. Good,” Tessa manages. “I’m glad to hear it.”