Left to Chance by Amy Sue Nathan
For Judith
Look what I have to show you!
Acknowledgments
It all started with tacos.
The first time I met my literary agent and friend, Danielle Egan-Miller, I offhandedly shared the seed of this story while we were eating lunch. Everyone at the table shared best friend stories, and we all cried. Then Danielle called me three times the following week to convince me that this was the novel I should write next. She was right! Danielle, here’s to many more years of tacos and stories.
Brenda Copeland and St. Martin’s Press took a chance on me six years ago. Brenda, we’d have made a great team even if we didn’t look like sisters. I know you helped me become a better writer. Huge thanks to Holly Ingraham for eagerly adopting me and Left to Chance, and to Jennie Conway, Nancy Sheppard, and Jessica Preeg of St. Martin’s Press, and Clancey D’Isa of Browne and Miller Literary Associates, for your diligence and enthusiasm.
A big hug to my daughter, Chloe, who is responsible for Shay’s handwritten note, and for patiently helping me restructure this book using stacks of brightly colored index cards during one very long afternoon (okay, and night). My only regret is Chloe’s permanent index card phobia. My son, Zachary, always responded quickly to my “What’s a good word for…” texts. Who needs a thesaurus? It is very cool to have grown-up kids. I am extraordinarily proud of them. I’m also fortunate to have my parents, brother, aunts, uncles, and cousins giving me their unbridled support. Now, from not-so-far away.
Renee San Giacomo, Fern Katz, Alice Davis, Ilene Banach, Deborah Okleshan, Carole Farley, Larry Blumenthal, Elaine Bookbinder, Pamela Toler, Joanna MacKenzie, Abby Saul, Janie Chang, Holly Robinson, Barbara Claypole White, Sharon Snider, Orly Konig, Cathy Lamb, Robert K. Lewis, Renee Rosen, Lydia Netzer, and Katie Moretti contributed time, insights, answers, or friendship (or a hearty combination thereof)—all equally important when writing a novel. Manny Katz, please note that sisters Violet, Lily, and Heather were named intentionally. Professional Women’s Network (PWN), an impressive group of women in Chicago’s South Suburbs, embraced me and my books, which they continue to do from a distance. Book Pregnant and WFWA provided much-needed camaraderie, and Tall Poppy Writers, individually and as a group, have added value to my life and my career in immeasurable ways.
Readers, librarians, booksellers, and bloggers were all so hospitable and warm, online and in real life. Bloom, a special Facebook group where readers gather, has been a source of fun and support. A special shout-out to the Manhattan-Elwood Public Library District in Illinois, for always welcoming me with a full house and a specially painted door. A hug to Lynn Rosen, my new neighbor at Open Book Bookstore in Elkins Park, Pennsylvania, along with author and friend Nomi Eve, for their warm welcome when I moved “back home.”
Last but not least, this book would not exist without my sister-friend since tenth grade, Judith Soslowsky. She experienced a health scare a few years back, and when I received the call that she was okay, Teddi’s story came to me fully formed. I never could have written a book about the impact of losing a lifelong best friend without having a lifelong best friend. She champions and challenges me and cracks me up and can make me cry. And this can happen in one phone call. Sometimes I think it’s a shame everyone can’t have her for a best friend. But you can’t. She’s mine.
And, yes, Jude, I’m making this about you.
Come to think of it, Danielle and Judith are two smart, trustworthy, strong women who have my back in different ways. Both are tall and have black hair. Neither has been seen in the same room as Wonder Woman.
Just sayin’.
A man travels the world over in search of what he needs and returns home to find it.
—GEORGE A. MOORE
Chapter 1
GETTING PICKED UP ONCE meant flirting and free drinks. Today it meant hurrying through the airport in comfortable shoes.
I wove in and out of the slow-walkers and rushed past restaurant outposts selling breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The sweet, buttery aroma wafting over from the gourmet popcorn shop didn’t slow me down, but when I reached a flower stand called Eliza’s, I paused. I could resist the bongo-like buckets overflowing with roses, carnations, sunflowers, and the assorted I-missed-you bouquets. What caught my eye was the faux-vintage signage and the way the flowers were shielded from the imaginary sun by an awning, all meant to mimic Victorian London. It didn’t hurt that the stand also sold energy drinks and earbuds. Nostalgia and irony. I resisted pulling out my camera.
My phone dinged as the carousel spit out my suitcase. I wouldn’t make Shay wait more than a few moments for my reply. I’d known Shay—Shayna—since the day she was born. I remembered when she’d babbled and burped, when she’d first walked and talked. Now she was a thumb-typing, artistic tween who held a piece of my heart tighter than ever before, mostly from afar.
But today, and for the next week, Shay and I would be face-to-face. First, we’d reminisce about meeting in Chicago last summer—tea at The Drake, climbing the wall at Maggie Daley Park, the miniatures at The Art Institute, and finding our way to the bottom of a tin of Garrett popcorn. We’d replay every detail but save the best fun for last, recalling how the hotel’s pastry chef let Shay decorate her own cake, which we later ate for dinner. Then we’d tick off the rest of the list: school, Shay’s art, friends, reality TV, and maybe, could it be possible—boys?
I couldn’t wait to see her, hug her, spend time with her.
I also couldn’t wait to leave.
Shay: Dad will be a few minutes late.
Me: Aren’t you with him?
Shay: In art class sorry.
Me: Ok.
Not okay. I didn’t want to spend an hour and a half alone in the car with Miles. Shay was the bridge, the bond, the buffer. And Shay wasn’t coming.
I paced between the signs for taxis and shuttle buses. Car after car slowed as it passed, then kept moving, or stopped for someone else. I watched bear-hug reunions and aloof hellos. I smiled at every woman driver who passed. I even stifled a few waves. My insides rolled. This had to stop.
Celia would not be picking me up.
A horn beep-beeped and a white sedan pulled alongside the curb. I slung my camera bag over my shoulder and tipped my suitcase toward the trunk, my eyes on my old friend as he stepped out of the car. Miles’s hair was gray and a little thin, more than it had been when I’d seen him a year before—or since, in the pictures he’d posted on Facebook. He’d lost weight.
I met Miles at the trunk. We reached our arms around each other and hugged hard, but quick. Miles wasn’t just thinner, he felt more fit than I remembered. What had been soft was now solid. But his newfound physique couldn’t hide the lines around his eyes. He looked tired.