I can’t breathe. “Cash . . . is this really her? Were they cousins?”
“I don’t know. There’s no picture. You have to create a profile to get a picture. But Zoe, I sent you another link.”
I click back to my email and click on the second link. I don’t prepare myself, I don’t think about it, I just click. And when the page opens, the room tilts.
“Oh my God, Cash.” It’s a Facebook page, a woman staring defiantly into the camera, with a twisted mouth, a coy smile, daring the world. Her eyes are twinkling, that pale, translucent blue that I recognize. Her hair is dark and unruly in spots, glossy in others, and I bet she has a hell of a time finding good product for it. Her nose is straight with an identifiable ridge and her left eyebrow shoots up noticeably higher than her right.
Like mine. It’s all like mine. It’s my face. Aged twenty years.
“It’s her. You’ve found her.”
? ? ?
For the rest of the day, I keep going back to the office and staring at the computer, at that picture. That sassy, smart-aleck face, the expression I recognize but maybe haven’t seen in a long time. I have the vague recollection of making that exact face for a picture during a night out with Lydia. In the bathroom mirror, I try to imitate it, pulling my mouth to the side, arching my already asymmetrical eyebrow. Back in the office, I download the picture and email it to myself.
I stretch and look around the room. On the far wall there are built-in bookcases, floor to ceiling with books: old, new, hardcover, paperback, thrillers, and mysteries; Ruth Rendell, Dennis Lehane, Ross Macdonald, Arthur Conan Doyle. I run my finger along the shelving and wonder if they, too, are Tara’s. The eye-level shelf holds knickknacks and picture frames, and I realize with a start that there’s a simple, black frame that holds a picture of me.
I’m sitting on a rock, overlooking a stream, wearing a violet shirt and a pair of khaki shorts. I remember that day, the hike at Breakneck Ridge. It was a strenuous hike, and I was panting by the top, hot and out of breath, out of shape. A breeze was lifting my hair while Henry snapped pictures with his Canon at the summit. I remember him finding the spot for the photo, off the main trail, to a sketchy side path, overgrown and treacherous. Claiming he wanted pictures of me for his offices, at work and in our apartment, something he could look at. I protested, pushing my bangs off my forehead, my hands on my flaming cheeks. It was September, the leaves still green, the air still humid.
I remember him helping me down from the steep rock, the way he pushed me against the closest tree without saying a word, pawing at my clothes, wanting me, his hands everywhere, his mouth hot and gasping. I remember the way the bark scratched my bare back as he thrust, only twice, before he fell against me, his body limp and panting. I remember being surprised by the need, the sharp, tangible desperation, as he whispered “I’m sorry” into my hair.
I had teased him about it later, and he growled at me, “It’s only because you’re so goddamn beautiful.” He’d pulled me against him so I could feel how he was still ready, and he softly bit my neck.
I take the picture over to the desk and hold it up next to the picture on the computer. If not for the age difference, we could be twins.
CHAPTER 13
I’m still staring at the computer when my phone rings in my hand. I jump and answer it without looking, assuming it is Cash. Instead, it is Henry.
“Who did you think it was?” he asks, ruffled, after my distracted Oh.
“No one! I thought it was you. I’m sorry, I’m on the internet. Hey, why was your office door locked?” My tone is accusatory and I silently chastise myself. Catch more flies with honey, an Evelyn favorite.
“Oh, was it? Habit, I guess. I sometimes rent out the house and I lock some of the doors. I don’t need people going through everything. The key is in the kitchen on the key hook. It’s an old skeleton key.” He clears his throat.
“Okay. I jimmied it open. If you don’t want people in there, you should get a padlock. Like the other room.”
There is a beat of silence. “That room has old client files.”
“Okay.”
“Anyway, I’m on my way back. I’ll be there in a half hour or so. Dinner?”
“Sure.” I check the clock on the wall. Somehow, it is four o’clock. I’ve literally killed a whole day staring at a picture. My head pulses and I realize I haven’t eaten anything. “Is there a restaurant in this town?”
Henry laughs. “This town is 90 percent Italian. There’s the best homemade Italian food you’ve ever had, inside or outside of the city.” Vacation Henry is back.