“She’ll know,” I say bravely, turning toward the receptionist and squaring my shoulders. “She’ll know.”
I spend half an hour waiting in the reception area. I am beginning to wonder about picking up Mitch and Missy at school. I know now, in the way I abruptly know things that previously baffled me in this world, that fetching the children from school is my responsibility. I also know that school lets out at three o’clock, an hour that is quickly approaching. Will I come this far and have to leave, simply because I must go back to my duties?
But finally another secretary arrives and nods at me. We make our way past a typing pool to a corner office. FRIEDA GREEN, PRESIDENT, it says on the door.
“Miss Green,” the secretary says, pressing a button on her desk. “I have Mrs. Andersson.”
It seems an eternity, and then finally I hear Frieda’s voice, crackly through the intercom. “Send her in.”
Frieda is standing, facing outward toward the windows behind her desk. She turns when I enter.
In some ways she looks the same, exactly as she did when I last saw her—which was yesterday, after all. Her thick, dark hair is teased up slightly, to give it more lift, then flipped under becomingly. Her heavy brows still arch in a way that makes her look like she’s concentrating even when she’s relaxed, just as they always have. Her mouth is outlined precisely with the bright red lipstick she favors.
She is dressed more formally than she would be for our shop, of course. She wears a smart, crisp suit in beige wool, with a short jacket, a straight skirt, and a silky purple blouse under it. Large silver hoops in her ears and an abstract silver pin in her lapel give her outfit just the slightest edge—businesslike, but still creative. I find myself nodding slightly, looking at her. Her attire makes perfect sense. It’s exactly how Frieda would play it, in this corporate life.
She looks me up and down. Compared to Frieda’s chic ensemble, I realize that my getup—plain navy-blue dress, low heels, no jewelry save for the wedding set on my left hand—makes me look outmoded. But not fun, artsy, who-cares-what-anyone-thinks outmoded, the way that Kitty would dress. More conventional-housewife outmoded, the way Katharyn would.
Well, I think, I can’t control everything in this world, but my wardrobe is one thing I can certainly transform. That restrained, sensible clothing collection in the big closet at home is long overdue for an overhaul. I resolve to do something about it this weekend.
“What brings you here?” Frieda asks finally, sweeping her hand toward the chair in front of her desk.
I sit nervously, perching my purse in my lap. “Frieda, I just . . .” I shake my head. “I don’t even know how to explain it,” I say softly. “You’d never believe it, and none of this seems real to me—not yet, anyway. So I don’t even know why I’m here.”
She sits across from me and puts her chin in her hands, a gesture she’s always made when she’s interested in what’s in front of her. “None of this seems real,” she repeats pensively. “What exactly does that mean?”
I sigh. “Tell me if I have this straight. In this world, I’m married to Lars Andersson, I have six-year-old triplets, and I live in a big house in Southern Hills. And you run half a dozen bookstores, and have God-knows-how-many employees, and you are expanding all over the region. And you’ve closed our little shop on Pearl Street. Do I have all that right?”
She regards me with disdain. “That sounds about right, Kitty.”
“And nobody calls me Kitty anymore,” I go on. “Lars calls me Katharyn, and so does everyone else I’ve met since I became a married woman. And the only people who really knew me and loved me in that other life, the life I had before, are you . . . and my parents . . .” I feel tears stinging my eyes, and I blink them back.
Frieda softens her gaze. “I’m sorry about your parents,” she says. “I did hear.”
“But you didn’t come!” I burst out. “Their funeral. You didn’t come.”
She looks away, toward the window. “I sent flowers,” she says, rather faintly.
“Flowers?” I am incredulous. “My parents were killed in an airplane crash, and your response is to send flowers?”
She hangs her head, just a tiny bit. “I didn’t think you’d want me at the service.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” I fish in my purse and retrieve a hankie, wiping my nose. I am furious with myself for getting this emotional, but I can’t help it. “You’re my best friend, Frieda. Why wouldn’t I want you at my parents’ funeral?”
“Kitty.” She stands up and reaches forward, across the desk, almost as if she plans to take my hand in hers. I hold my breath, waiting. But then Frieda’s look changes, becomes hard again, and it seems as if some moment, some potential, has passed—before it had a chance to fully form itself.
She straightens her shoulders and rather hastily reseats herself. “You walked out on me,” she says. “You were the one who left, Kitty.” She looks out the window again. “Not me.”
I shake my head. “Why would I do that?”
She eyes me skeptically. “You know perfectly well why.” For emphasis, she taps her desk with her long, manicured nails. “At least, you know the reason you gave.”
I am completely stumped. “I don’t remember,” I say softly. “I don’t know the reason, Frieda . . . but whatever it was, I’m sure it was just a misunderstanding.”
“A misunderstanding. Yep.” She presses her lips together. “That’s quite a way to put it, Kitty.”
The intercom buzzes, and the secretary’s voice comes through, saying something I don’t quite catch. “All right,” Frieda responds, leaning toward the intercom. “Put it through.” She looks up at me. “Excuse me a moment while I take this call.” I start to rise, and she waves her hand dismissively. “You can stay,” she tells me. “It’s just business.” She eyes me pointedly, and I lower my gaze to my lap.
While she is speaking into the telephone, I force myself to try to remember. What am I doing here? What happened? What am I not remembering?
Trying to concentrate, I close my eyes.
Chapter 32
Kitty.”
I open my eyes, but I cannot see anything. Wherever I am, it’s light—very light. There is too much brightness, too much glare, to make sense of anything else.
“Kitty, can you hear me? Are you all right?”
I’m not all right, I’m not all right. I’m saying it, but Frieda is not hearing it. I cannot focus on her. I cannot make out her features. I feel her grip on my shoulder, but my mind cannot make my muscles move. I’m unable to reach up and clasp Frieda’s hand with my own.
“Kitty, listen to me. You have to listen to me.”
Vaguely, as if from far away, I hear myself say, “I’m listening, Freeds.”