But there was something off with Colin. He smiled with effort and his shoulders hunched forward.
“Are you okay?”
“Just a little pain here.” Colin tried to straighten himself up, winced, pressed a hand into his side. “Dr. Internet says it might be an ulcer.”
“You need to see a real doctor.”
“It’s the end of the semester. Too much work.”
“Take some days off. We’ll manage, and I’ll ask people here for the name of someone good.”
“Thank you.” He eased himself down in the chair. “I’ve been meaning to ask you: Who is Harper?”
Jen felt a precipitous drop in her stomach. “Harper was a girl in Abe’s class at Foothills.” Her voice sounded too prim.
“Okay.” His fingers worried the top button of Paul’s old shirt. “They didn’t get in a knife fight, did they? Abe said something to that effect the other day.”
“What did he say?”
“It was strong language. ‘Cross me and I’ll cut you like Harper,’ something like that? With anyone else, I would be worried, but I know Abe has that dry sense of humor. He was joking, right?”
It would be impossible for Jen to adequately communicate what Foothills had been like—the months of terror and bullying that had resulted in the Harper French stabbing. If she told Colin now, the story would be about Abe Pagano’s irrepressible violent streak.
More than Dr. Shapiro or even Paul, Colin had become a touchstone for Jen. He talked about Abe in a way that made the challenges seem manageable, a mere part of Abe, rather than what defined him.
He was the necessary counterpoint to the Scofield voice. And he was real. There was no point in even telling Colin, Jen decided. It was ancient history and irrelevant.
“He was joking,” Jen said.
“Right.” Colin chuckled, then winced. “I figured a stabbing would have come up.” He braced himself against the table and hoisted himself up.
“We’re getting you a doctor’s appointment,” Jen called after him as he hobbled away. The thought of doing so made her feel slightly better about the lie.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
It was a gorgeous April morning and Annie was reclined on a chaise in Lena’s backyard with a breeze ruffling her hair. The grass glittered in the sunlight. An insistent chickadee sounded its two-note chirp.
Across from her, Lena and Laurel leaned toward each other, passed binders back and forth, talked about party decorations and food and the cake. Annie closed her eyes, lifted her face to the sun, saw a sepia-toned image dance across her eyelids.
A lawn full of people in pashminas and linen suits.
“Mom.”
Annie opened her eyes.
Lena and Laurel were both looking at her.
“Your dresses arrive tomorrow,” Lena said, and from her tone it was clear she was repeating the information. With her dark-framed glasses and white button-down shirt, Lena looked very professional. “We’ll find a time for you to try it on?”
“Can’t wait.”
“You were saying something about the dance floor,” Laurel said.
“I always put it there,” Lena said in a brisk voice. Party planning had infused her with a formidable energy that both impressed Annie and made her want to hide in the bushes.
Watching the lawn from the cisterna plum, branches tickling her arms.
The party planning was making memories come back to Annie in pieces, bits of fuselage washed to shore. She busied herself with rolling up her pants legs, exposing her pale shins to the sun.
Lena’s floaty green dress. Rachel leaned over the bar, her giant eyes watching Bryce.
She’d been just a few years older than Laurel. What was Rachel like now? The more Annie tried to look past the question, the bigger it became.
If Annie saw for herself that Rachel was okay, maybe the tide could do its job, sweep up the beached wreckage and wash it back out to sea.
“The DJ will be under a tree.” Lena sighed. “If Laurel still insists on a DJ and not a live band.”
“Laurel insists on a DJ,” Laurel said, grinning. “It’s going to look awesome. Can you imagine, Mom?”
“Yep,” Annie said. Could she ever.
FIFTEEN YEARS EARLIER
Bryce was being Bryce.
It was taking him forever to get Annie’s orange juice from the bar because he was working overtime to charm the sour-faced girl behind it.
He still looked the high school track star. When he flung his lean arms sloppily to emphasize a point, his short sleeve slipped to expose a long tendon, the slight bulge of his biceps.