Heart of the Matter - Emily Giffin [132]
“Thank you,” Tessa says. And then, “Where?”
“I’m at Wellesley Booksmith . . . Would you like to come meet me here?” she says, wishing she had worn a nicer outfit, and bothered to run a brush through her hair, then realizing this is probably a good thing.
Valerie listens to a silence so thick that she wonders if Tessa hung up or muted the phone until she hears, “Okay. Yes. I’ll be right over.”
And now she waits. She waits in the front of the store, next to the shelves of greeting cards and wrapping paper, staring past a window display onto Central Street, a hundred, disjointed thoughts spinning in her head. She waits for fifteen, then twenty, then thirty minutes as a dozen or more women walk through the door. She remains convinced that none is Tessa until this second when this woman walks in. A woman who, very clearly, has not come to shop for books.
Valerie studies her hungrily, memorizing the way she unbuttons her long camel coat, exposing an elegant yet understated ensemble of slim black pants, an ivory crewneck sweater, and matte gold flats. She admires her thick, honey-colored hair that falls to her shoulders in soft waves, and features that are vivid and strong, unlike so many of the generic beauties populating Wellesley. If she is wearing makeup at all, Valerie decides, it’s the subtlest of applications, although her full lips are shiny with peach gloss.
The woman glances furtively around the store, somehow missing Valerie upon first scan despite how close they are standing. Then, suddenly, their eyes lock. Valerie’s heart stops, and she considers running out the door. Instead, she takes a step forward, no longer protected by the buffer of greeting cards.
“Tessa?” Valerie says, a chill running up her spine.
The woman nods, then extends her arm, offering her hand. Valerie takes it, her heart aching as she feels her smooth, warm skin and catches a whiff of a citrus fragrance.
As their hands fall to their sides again, Tessa swallows and says, “Can we go find a place to sit down?”
Valerie nods, having already scoped out a table in the back children’s section, saving it with her puffy parka and stash of books. She turns and walks toward it now, and seconds later, the two women are seated across from one another.
“So,” Tessa says. “Hello.”
“Hello,” Valerie echoes, her throat dry and palms wet.
Tessa starts to speak, then stops, then begins again. “How’s Charlie?” she asks, with such genuine concern that for one hopeful second Valerie thinks that she has it all wrong—and that Tessa is only here to check on her husband’s patient.
But as Valerie replies that Charlie is doing much better, thank you for asking, she sees Tessa’s lower lip quiver tellingly. And Valerie knows that she knows.
“Good. Good,” Tessa manages. “I’m glad to hear it.”
Then, when Valerie can’t take the suspense another second, Tessa draws a deep breath and says, “Well. Look. I think we both know why I’m here . . . Why I wanted to meet you.”
Valerie nods, her throat becoming tighter and drier by the second, her cheeks blazing.
“I’m here because I know,” Tessa says so matter-of-factly that for a second Valerie is confused.
“You know?” she says, instantly regretting the question. She has no right to be cagey. She has no right on her side at all.
“Yes. I know,” Tessa replies, her eyes flashing. “I know everything”
43
Tessa
There is no denying that she is pretty, very pretty, her eyes a disturbingly deep blue. But there is nothing sexy about her. With a petite, narrow frame, and almost no hips or chest, she is more boyish than bombshell. Her face is pale against her stick-straight ebony hair, which is pulled into an uninspired low ponytail. In short, as I say her name and watch her nod back at me, I feel a strange sense of relief that this is the woman, that she is the one. I am relieved by her frail handshake, her thin voice, and the