“I’ve got coffee with Roberta and Cameron, to go over our trip.” Margo looked at her clock with a faint smile. “We meet in an hour.”
And with the reminder that her mother cared more about coordinating her bucket-list trip than their own family tree, Diana headed to the bedroom door, eager for space between them. “All right. I’ll see you then, this afternoon.”
But before she stepped out, her mother said, “Diana? I know you’ll do the right thing.”
She spoke over her shoulder. “That’s all I want to do, Ma.”
* * *
“Earth to Diana.”
Diana blinked at the chalkboard menu behind the counter, and then to Sam, in front of her in line. They’d taken a detour after their run, to Old Town Coffee & Tea for Sam’s extra-large Americano and some pastries for the center’s monthly staff meeting.
“Are you sure you don’t want anything? On me?” Sam asked.
“Nah, I need my stomach to settle after that sprint you took me on.”
“You know you loved it.”
“Yeah, I did.” Diana smiled as she took one of the two bags of pastries handed to them. The buttery smell of croissants wafted through the brown bag, and she sniffed it, the act pushing her last conversation with her mother to the periphery. Her mouth watered. “Mmm, maybe I will have one.”
Sam leaned back against the café front door to open it, and a bell rang to signal their departure. The temperature dropped as they crossed over the threshold, and a chill made its way into Diana’s bones. “So … care to finally catch me up on what’s going on? You were pretty quiet on our run,” Sam said.
Diana told her about the letters as they walked down Burg Street, chins tucked into their long-sleeve fleece shirts. After she mentioned the private investigator, Sam halted in the middle of the sidewalk.
“Holy shit. What a difference a couple of days make. How are you not parked somewhere either taking shots or scarfing a whole lot of chocolate?” Her breaths came out in puffs of white.
“I don’t know. I think I’m still in shock.” They’d stopped in front of Rings & Roses, one of two wedding shops in Old Town, and Diana caught herself examining the A-line silhouette of the wedding dress that fit the width of the darkened front bay window.
She had had an A-line dress on order once upon a time, when she was ninety-nine percent sure Carlo would propose on their third Valentine’s Day together. The store had had a sale going on, and in anticipation of the wedding she was going to have, she’d nabbed her princess dress at 50 percent off.
Diana was much better now, but six months ago had been a different story, when the bottom of what she thought was a well-reinforced box gave out. She and Carlo had adored each other, but soon she’d found that there was a limit to this adoration. That limit was when her attention veered when Granny died, when she no longer treated Carlo as if he were the only light in her world. Then her mother spent more time with them; shortly after, she’d moved into their town house.
Over time, Carlo became jealous. He hated being the third wheel in an otherwise healthy relationship between mother and child. He hadn’t liked being upstaged, and soon, what they had built split apart seam by seam.
It didn’t help that he’d already found a fourth wheel. Now, Diana realized that the other woman had been an excuse. And while she had been strong enough to throw him out after she’d discovered his infidelity, still, Diana fell apart.
Except, it didn’t look that way at first. She’d simply thrown herself into her work; she hardly slept, volunteering for call at every opportunity. She buried herself in anything but emotion, anything to keep her from coming home, where, slowly, pieces of Carlo were disappearing. Because living with someone for five years had meant letting that person seep into every seam of one’s life—crumbs had nestled in deep despite the various attempts to vacuum them out—just when Diana thought that the last of him was gone, she’d find a magnet from a tourist spot they’d once visited. Or a bookmark tucked into one of their shared books. A men’s sock in the wash.
Work became her solace, where she ignored time, exhaustion, and common sense, until it took an intervention, a check-in with her primary care physician—yes, doctors had their own doctors, too—to make her realize that the grief over her breakup, her Granny’s death, and her mother moving in had taken a toll.
But no, right now was not like back then, because she was aware of it. Right now, it wasn’t grief she was feeling but surprise. Like everything in her box had spilled onto the floor and she had been handed a completely different box to put everything in, with secret compartments.
“I see the way you’re looking at me, and no, I’m not thinking about Carlo. I mean, not in the way you think.” Diana glanced at her friend briefly. “My brain is all about the what-ifs. Would I be here today if my grandfather had come back? Would I have met Carlo? Would my mother be as infuriating?”
“You know you can’t play that game. Like, what if I decided to have a latte instead of an Americano yesterday? Would I have spilled it over the files I was working on, which set me back an hour trying to re-create my documents, only to miss another first date?” She grinned. “Know what I mean? You will drive yourself to madness that way.”
“You had a first date yesterday and didn’t tell me?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“First dates are important.”
“See? You and your mother are more alike than you think. You both like to avoid stuff. In your case? Feelings.”
Diana looked up at the dress, laughed at the memory of trying hers on with Sam and the proprietor of Rings & Roses behind her. “You want emotion? I should have trashed the dress instead of selling it. That would have been more fun, if less economical. Anyway, we should get out of the cold. Your coffee is going to be frigid.”
Diana walked three steps, then stopped and looked back. Sam hadn’t moved. “Well?”
“Promise me you will try not to play the what-if game, okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, fine. Let’s go,” Diana said nonchalantly, avoiding her friend’s eyes. And finally, to her relief, Sam picked up her step.
But as they came around the corner to the center, Diana spied a group of people milling at the entrance. In front was the unmistakably recognizable face and big hair of Ursula Woods, field reporter for Northern Virginia News.
“What’s she doing here?” Sam asked.
Ursula, as if signaled about their arrival, raised her face to them. She smiled, then began a steady march in their direction. She spoke while she was still feet away. “Dr. Cary. If I could have your thoughts on the equity of luxury birth suites?”
“Oh my God,” Diana said. “This isn’t good.”
“Here, give me all of that.” But instead of waiting, Sam scooped the bag from Diana’s arms. “Just go,” she said over the top of her coffee.
“But what are you going to—”
“Are you kidding? This is a good chance for me to do some promo.”
“But I didn’t get to ask. What should I do? About the PI, about all of it?”
“You do what you always do. Triage, diagnose, treat, Diana. Just remember to share your load. Don’t shoulder this entire responsibility. And good luck.”