“You did?” Kersti says, turning to Cressida.
“She paid for our flights,” Anni says.
“We’re going to pay her back,” Paavo adds.
“Please,” Cressida says dismissively. “I just arranged it through Armand’s secretary. It’s no big deal.”
“When did you arrive?” Kersti wants to know.
“Late last night,” Anni says. “We’re staying at the Ibis hotel.”
“Aren’t you happy we’re here?” Maaja asks her.
“Yes!” Kersti cries, hugging her.
“You guys are clones,” Cressida says, looking at Kersti beside her sisters. Maaja and Tuule still have the same hair—white-blond bobs held to the side with those old metal clips from when they were little. They’re wearing knee-length skirts with crisp white shirts and cardigans. Kersti is happy to see them.
“I have to shower before Deirdre and Armand get here,” Cressida says.
“Show us your room, Kerst,” Tuule says.
Kersti takes them upstairs. She’s floating, proud. She glances into the staff room on the second floor and notices Angela Zumpt sitting there, staring at nothing. Hamidou is reading in the armchair beside her. Angela’s parents aren’t here. The rumor is she has no parents and lives with an uncle during the summers. For the first time ever, Kersti feels sorry for her. She looks so lonely sitting beside Hamidou, like a pet dog. Waiting to be petted or acknowledged, any shred of attention she can get.
Kersti continues up the stairs, not wanting to think about Angela or pity her.
When Cressida heads off to her room, Kersti catches up to her and hugs her. “Thank you so much,” she says. “I can’t believe you did this.”
“Life is short.”
“No it’s not,” Kersti responds. “It’s long and slow as hell.”
Cressida smiles, like she knows something Kersti doesn’t.
Chapter 19
TORONTO—October 2015
Kersti comes home in the late afternoon to an empty house. She timed her return flight so Jay would be at work. She texted him while she was away—short, terse messages to let him know her hotel, her flight information—but he never responded.
She settles at her writing desk with a cup of tea and a pile of Social Tea cookies. She hasn’t written in way too long. There have been too many distractions, none of them pleasant. These dry spells make her very anxious. She always feels tremendous pressure to get a new book out before she vanishes into obscurity. Her last one was published two years ago, a long gap, given that this one won’t go to print for at least another year after she writes it.
She dunks a cookie in her tea and stares grimly at her computer. Chapter One.
She thought Magnus might text her today. Thought he might follow up, see if she was able to track down one or both of the Fitherns, which she did. It was as simple as typing Mrs. Fithern’s maiden name and up she popped on LinkedIn. Annie Brains-Chowne. Teacher at Abberley Middle School, Abberley, Worcestershire. Among her credentials was the Lycée Internationale Suisse, 1985–1993, and if that wasn’t enough, her professional email address was also listed. All that was missing was a recent photograph.
Kersti debated whether to reach out to her by email. She concluded she was less likely to get a response, whereas if she calls her—perhaps at home one evening, without any warning—she will have a much better chance of connecting with her. So, thanks to the whitepages.co.uk, Mrs. Brains-Chowne’s phone number is now safely stored on Kersti’s phone.
Surprisingly, Kersti also found Mr. Fithern as effortlessly as she found his former wife. She thought he might be in hiding, still running from the scandal at the Lycée and its lingering cloud of shame, but there he was on LinkedIn, his fifty-year-old face smiling back at her as though he had nothing to hide. His once-black hair was gray and significantly thinned out, which made his ears look disproportionately huge, and his chin looked weaker than she remembered. His teeth were crooked and slightly buck, much less forgiving to his overall appearance than when they’d been brighter and whiter in his youth, but his eyes still had that twinkle of mischievousness and rebellion, or whatever it was that had once made him so enthralling.
He’s still teaching, though now at an all-boys school, where he’s been since the late nineties. Prior to that, he taught at the international school in Lilongwe, Malawi, no doubt a period of soul-searching and regrouping in the aftermath of Cressida and the evident dissolution of his marriage. Staring at his picture, Kersti can’t believe that the legendary Mr. Fithern—the love of Cressida’s short, young life—is now a middle-aged schoolteacher with bad teeth and big ears, and a secret past that probably no one gives a shit about anymore.
She wonders if he ever really loved Cressida. In retrospect, it’s doubtful. He was probably just seizing his opportunity to screw a young girl of her stature while he had the chance. By virtue of being one of the only male teachers at a small girls’ boarding school—his only competition was old M. Mahler—he was lucky enough to be able to choose from the crème de la crème of teenage heiresses. In the real world a girl like Cressida would have been way out of his league.
Chapter One
Imbi stepped out from the twisting cobblestone lane into Raekoja plats, the town square where she had last seen Gunnar twenty years ago. Built out of the thirteenth-century town of Reval, Tallinn’s Old Town was a bustling enclave of Hanseatic architecture, colorful gabled houses, Gothic-spired churches, hidden courtyards, and markets. But on that morning, Imbi was preoccupied, her thoughts consumed with her memories of Gunnar
She hears the front door slam downstairs and stops writing. Jay’s home early.
She realizes, as she waits for his footsteps on the stairs, that she’s nervous. She has no idea where his head is at, if he’s angry with her or if he’s had time to reflect and calm down. Her heart is racing and she’s bracing for a fight, even though it’s possible he won’t speak to her at all. He’s been known to give her the silent treatment for days. It doesn’t happen often, but when he makes up his mind to punish her by shutting down, he can be frighteningly unyielding.
The Sonos goes on and for a long time she hears nothing but the sound of Drake’s moody rapping. She returns to her work and tries to sink back into the lives of Imbi and Gunnar, but it’s pointless.
“Hi.”
She looks up, startled, and he’s there in the doorway. Instinctively, she jumps up from her desk and rushes over to him, throwing her arms around his neck and holding on to him. Soon she’s sobbing out loud, her whole body making jerky little spasms in his arms. He rubs her back and she can feel his heart beating against her cheek. “I missed you,” she tells him. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry, too.”