She shakes out each sneaker and checks her toiletries bag.
She closes her eyes and breathes a sigh of relief: The bracelet is tucked inside.
She’s slipping it on her wrist when her phone rings. It’s Matthew.
She considers letting it go to voice mail, but it’s so unlike him to call during the workday that she wonders if something’s wrong.
“Hello there.”
“Hey, listen, I forgot what time we’re seeing Avery tonight.”
“It’s in the family calendar. Seven P.M.”
“Oh, yeah, now I remember.” Matthew hesitates. “How’s your day going?”
Is it possible Matthew called merely to hear her voice? It has been years since he’s done that.
She clears her throat. “Good…”
A few feet away, two women begin to talk about the spin class they just took. “That was insane,” the slim redhead says. “I don’t think I’m gonna be able to walk tomorrow.”
“Are you at Coco?” Matthew asks.
Does he recall that she goes to Pilates on Monday mornings? He admitted to driving by the gym and wanting to beat up every guy in it. Maybe this is a test.
“Uh, actually I’m at Pinnacle.” She closes her eyes and quickly adds, “I’m canceling my membership.”
She’ll miss her classes and the convenient location, but she needs to put Matthew’s mind at ease.
She waits a beat. “Matthew? Are you still there?”
“Ah … Okay.” Her body sags in relief because his tone is fractionally warmer. “See you at seven.”
* * *
Marissa opens the door to Coco and steps inside. No matter what else is going on in her life, this chic, intimate space feels like a sanctuary. Marissa was involved in every step of its creation, from consulting with the architect who drew up the plans to remodel the rooms—which formerly was an ophthalmologist’s office—to choosing the reclaimed wood to wrap around the trio of beams that bisect the store. The lighting, the layout, the dove-gray paint on the walls—it’s her vision, brought to life.
At first, she wasn’t completely sure she could pull it off. Back at her parents’ store, she discovered she had a knack for rearranging the display cases, but she had help—her best friend, Tina, had worked alongside her. Together, they’d come up with the idea of using little boxes to lift the trays of caprese and pasta salads, and bringing in springs of fresh herbs and pretty wildflowers to adorn the tuna steaks and deviled eggs. She and Tina had also bought inexpensive straw baskets to display tomatoes and zucchini and unshucked corn, and they’d convinced Marissa’s parents to replace the tired laminated floor with inexpensive material that looked like stone tiles. Tina, who loved fashion and had an eye for color, had picked the stone; it was a shade of rust that Marissa wasn’t sure would work. But Tina insisted it would, and it had. In another life, Marissa could still be working at Conner’s—helping her brother, Luke, gradually taking over the reins from her parents, perhaps even branching out into a second location. She could have married a local boy and remained near the water. She wouldn’t have Tina, but maybe she’d have started trying to get pregnant earlier and been able to have more children.
Marissa didn’t have many regrets in life, but when she and Matthew began to drift apart, she found herself ruminating about her choice to be with him during the summer she turned fifteen, and how turning toward Matthew meant other doors had closed to her. But without Matthew, there could be no Bennett, which was unfathomable.
“Marissa! Hi! How are you!” Polly hurries toward her, an eager smile on her face.
“Fine. How was your weekend?”
“Oh, gosh, it was—well, first, do you want some tea? I just brewed some but it’s easy to make more.”
“No, but I appreciate the offer.”
Something seems different about Polly this morning. Maybe it’s that she looks a little tired.
Marissa begins to walk toward the back room.
Polly quickly moves to keep step with her. “Do you have a sec?” Polly tilts her head. It’s her hairstyle that’s different, Marissa realizes—she’s never seen Polly wear a simple ponytail.
Marissa needs to light a fire under the supplier of the missing place settings, and attend to this month’s bills, and email Bennett’s math teacher to see if the poor test result is a one-off or if Bennett’s truly struggling in the class. “Sure,” Marissa replies, but her tone is brisk, and she keeps walking.