They meet at La Carnita, a dark, hipster place on College that Alison suggested. Craving Mexican, she wrote. All the arrangements were made via text.
When Kersti arrives, she spots Alison at a back booth, looking identical to her teenage self. Astonishingly, she hasn’t changed at all. Her red hair is cut in a practical bob that she’s probably chosen for its convenience and ease, not for its style, and her skin is freckled and unfairly youthful, smooth in the places where Kersti is starting to detect lines. She’s still lanky and fit, wearing a chambray blue button-down shirt and Capri jeans.
“You haven’t aged!” Kersti cries, staring at her in disbelief. “You look sixteen! How is that possible?”
“Fresh mountain air?” she says, standing up and hugging Kersti. “You look great, too.”
“No, I don’t. I’m almost four months pregnant and wearing elastic waistband maternity jeans.”
“Congratulations,” Alison says, sitting back down. “What number is this?”
“My first. And second.”
“Twins?”
Kersti nods, tenderly rubbing her tummy the way pregnant women do, something that used to annoy the hell out of her. “How about you? Kids?”
“No,” she says, not seeming the least bit bothered or embarrassed about it. “Andrew and I decided a long time ago children wouldn’t fit into our lifestyle.”
“Tell me about your lifestyle. Living in Whistler must be awesome.”
“We love it,” she says, her blue eyes shining. “Obviously, we do a lot of skiing and mountain biking. We’ve got a condo right on Blackcomb. We travel. It’s a good life. What about you? What do you do?”
“I’m a writer. I’ve had a few novels published.”
“Very cool,” Alison says, but doesn’t ask where she might be able to pick one up. Maybe she’s not the historical romance type.
While they’re catching each other up on husbands, weddings, careers, and all other notable events of the past two decades, a tattooed server with long dreadlocks brings them a platter of warm tortilla chips, guacamole, and grilled street corn.
“Hearing from you was really out of the blue,” Alison says, reaching for a tortilla.
“I know. And I’m so glad you texted me today. I’ve thought about you so often over the years.”
“Me, too.”
“I guess the short version is I was going along in my life, pretending the Lycée didn’t exist, trying never to think about it, and then I got the invitation to the hundredth birthday celebration, followed by a letter from Lille. I figured it must be time to face it and hopefully get some closure.”
“How is Lille?”
“She died.”
Alison’s expression changes instantly. “How?”
“Breast cancer. Her mom found the letter on her computer and sent it to me.” Kersti reaches into her handbag and pulls it out. “Here.”
Alison reads the letter and then wordlessly hands it back to Kersti.
“I went to see Deirdre in Boston,” Kersti says. “It turns out Cressida left a suicide note.”
She waits for a reaction from Alison, but there’s nothing.
“Deirdre and I aren’t convinced Cressida is the one who wrote it, though,” Kersti continues. “I went to New York to talk to Magnus—”
“Foley?”
“Yes. And then I spoke to Mrs. Fithern—”
“You’re on quite a mission.”
“Well, I’m also getting a lot of good material for a new book,” Kersti says. “If I could just connect that missing ledger to what happened to Cressida—”
“How is Mrs. Fithern?” Alison interrupts.
“She remarried and has four daughters. She seems happy.”
“Why did you call her?”
“To find out what she knew,” Kersti says. “She was at Huber that night. She was housemother, remember?”
“So?”
“Magnus went to see her. He told her about the affair.”
“Did she talk to Cressida?”
“She says she didn’t,” Kersti says skeptically. “She says she felt sorry for her, that Charles was the predator. She also told me Cressida was pregnant.”
Kersti lets her bombshell land and then adds, “Mr. Fithern told her after Cressida fell.”
“What a mess,” Alison says. “I can’t believe she told you all that.”
“They both think Cressida jumped,” Kersti says. “Which frankly I find rather convenient.”
Alison dips the corner of a tortilla chip into the guacamole and nibbles on it.
“I’m going to Lausanne next month,” Kersti says. “I was asked to speak as one of the One Hundred Women of the Lycée.”
Alison laughs out loud. “What an honor.”
“Well, I’m also going to be moral support for Cressida’s mother,” Kersti adds, playing down the reunion. “She’s going to talk to Bueche about opening an investigation—”
“Bueche,” Alison repeats, her tone full of disdain.
“Why are you so bitter about the Lycée?”
When Alison doesn’t respond, Kersti says, “You weren’t even friends with Cressida at the end. You seemed pretty happy there. Your whole life revolved around sports, which you love. You were the star of every team—”
“Thank God for sports,” Alison says, and Kersti isn’t sure if she’s being facetious. “The skiing was good,” she adds offhandedly.
“Remember Mahler?” Kersti says, rolling up her taco into a tight cigar. “What are you doing, you silly twits? Three hits, you ugly spinsters!”
“Give the ball to Alison, schwachk?pfe!”
They giggle together at the memory, but Alison’s mood has clearly sunk. There’s a shadow over her eyes, a distance that wasn’t there before. “I don’t see the point of reopening an investigation,” she says. “It’s not like anyone is going to remember anything. Whatever happened to Cressida, only Cressida knows. You’re going to have to make up an ending for your next book.”
“I don’t believe that,” Kersti says. “Someone knows something.”
“And you think they’re going to share it with you?”
“I think Deirdre should reopen an investigation, that’s all. She deserves to know the truth. Something isn’t right and frankly I don’t buy Mrs. Fithern’s story.”
“Are you hoping to prove Cressida jumped or that someone pushed her?”
“I’m not hoping to prove one thing or another,” Kersti says. “But I think we can all agree that Cressida didn’t fall off her balcony by accident. I did my part to move on and accept the Lycée’s story, but I know too much now. I want to know what happened to Cressida and I think I can get a hell of a lot closer to it in Lausanne.”
Alison is staring at her, unmoved. She hasn’t touched her tacos. Kersti has a strange feeling she knows something she’s not saying.
“Anyway, look,” Kersti says, trying to switch gears. “The main reason I contacted you is because Rafaella and Noa will be there and I thought it would be fun for us all to reconnect—”
“I can’t go,” Alison says.
“Because you have other commitments, or because you can’t?”