And I regret that I spent over a year of my career covering celebrity crimes and misdemeanors (which generally involve the hurling of a cell phone at someone’s head) for one of those tabloid magazines that used to be like crack for women under fifty but are now so desperate for newsstand sales that they run fake headlines like “Kate Pregnant with Triplets—Palace Confirms.” My only defense about that one is that I needed the work.
There’s one regret, however, that I never had any good excuses for. When Jillian Lowe, a girl I’d become friends with sophomore year at Brown, was roused by a phone call on a Saturday morning in early April and informed that her parents and two younger siblings had been murdered, I did nothing to comfort her. Oh, wait, excuse me. I did send a sympathy card, and I also chipped in on a floral arrangement for the private funeral service, one of those standing sprays that make it look like the coffin’s just won the Kentucky Derby. But that was it. And my failure ate away at me for years.
So, needless to say, I was pretty floored when Jillian showed up looking for me on a July evening nearly sixteen years later.
I’d just conducted the final interview in a sell-out four-part series called Criminal Minds at the 92nd Street Y on Lexington Avenue in Manhattan. The Y’s programmer had approached me a few months before, thinking that I’d have a nice touch with the convicted felons they’d wrangled for the program, including an infamous inside trader who’d served seven years in prison. I jumped at the chance. This would be a way to keep momentum going on the true crime book I’d published back in in February.
As hoped, the series garnered a ton of buzz and I’d sold a boatload of books so far. However, enabling those felons to fluff their feathers in public had left me feeling sullied. I couldn’t wait to be done with the whole thing, and when the audience Q&A portion of the final evening was over, I bolted from the stage so fast that the female con artist I’d been interviewing had probably taken notes on my stunning escape strategy. I still had to sign books in the vestibule, but that would take only twenty minutes or so.
Jillian, it turned out, was waiting off to the left of the book table and a little behind me. I couldn’t see her face from where I was sitting, but I remember being aware of someone’s presence as I kept dashing off my signature. At signings there are always a few hoverers, people unwilling to cough up eighteen bucks for your book and yet eager to request the name of your agent or suggest that you might enjoy critiquing their 534-page unpublished manuscript free of charge.
I signed the last book, thanked the rep from the Y for her assistance, and jumped up to leave. Before I’d taken a step from the table, I could sense the person over my shoulder closing in. I turned, prepared to announce that I unfortunately had to fly.
“Hello, Bailey,” she said.
It took a few beats for me to realize who it was. Neither time nor tragedy had dimmed her prettiness, but her long blond hair was now brunet and cut to her chin. Her skin was as creamy-looking as it used to be, though there were small crow’s-feet around her eyes, the kind you get from too much sun. Something else seemed different, too, though I couldn’t put my finger on it.
“Oh, my gosh, Jillian, it’s you,” I said, finally wiping the blank look off my face.
“It’s really nice to see you after all this time, Bailey.”
“Your hair—it’s different. I almost didn’t recognize you.”
At first she didn’t seem to grasp what I meant.
“Oh, right,” she said, lightly touching the locks by her temple. “I stopped coloring it a long time ago. And yours is short now, I see.”
“Yeah, I chopped it off when I hit thirty, let it grow back, then cut it again just recently. I never had great hair, did I?”
“Well, at least you’re a natural blonde.”
I smiled and she smiled back. But the sheer pleasure I experienced at the sight of her quickly began to shape-shift into awkwardness. I could sense guilt creeping around the edges of my mind, trying to assert itself. You were a lousy friend to her, Bailey. She suffered the most horrible loss, and you didn’t reach out.
Jillian, however, seemed genuinely pleased to see me. Nothing about her attitude hinted at lingering disappointment that spanned over a decade and a half. I couldn’t believe I was actually setting eyes on her. Where had she been all this time? Had she been all right?
“Were you here tonight—at the event?” I asked.
“Yes, I mean, kind of hanging in the back. I wanted to get in touch with you, but I didn’t know any other way. I was afraid if I used the email address on your website, the message would end up in some kind of black hole.”
“What are you doing in the city?”
“Living here—temporarily. A sublet in Williamsburg.”
I had no idea what she did professionally or even if she worked. What I could surmise just from looking at her was that her clothes—cropped black pants, chunky heeled sandals, and a flowy gold-and-black top—were classy and hip and that she probably wasn’t married, since there was no wedding band on her left hand.
“It’d be great to get together while you’re here,” I told her, though the idea, even while she stood right in front of me, was difficult to imagine. “Do you have time?”