NAOMI TRACE’S ATTIC was not the kind of place that had secrets. Every single item was perfectly labeled in a perfectly sized storage Tupperware. Besides, the things she stored up there only took up half of one wall anyhow. The woman was infamous for ruthlessly tossing away keepsakes. Mary had clear memories of her mother nodding briskly at an A-plus essay Mary had brought home and then promptly tossing it into the recycling, seeing no reason to keep it.
Which was why Mary was surprised to find herself in the attic on Sunday morning, her mother pointing to which clear plastic boxes she wanted Mary to shuffle around.
“That one there. No. Wait, it’s the one next to it. Yes.”
Mary blinked at the perfect label that ran along the side of the box. “Photographs,” it read.
She was surprised to see that her mother kept a miscellaneous box of photographs in the attic because Naomi was strictly a photos-belong-in-photo-albums sort of person. Mary had thought that all the photos her parents owned were currently neatly shelved alongside their John Grisham and Agatha Christie collections in the living room.
But here she was, staring down at a plastic shoebox filled to the brim with old photos.
“Here,” her mother said impatiently, gesturing for Mary to hand over the box. Then she reached her hand out and firmly helped Mary step out of the maze of other boxes. Mary had a flashback to her childhood. Slipping at the edge of a pool and falling into the deep end before she could swim. There was the sun, too bright through the water, the white-bubbled panic slipping out of Mary’s nose and mouth. And then there was her mother, a firm hand under Mary’s armpit, yanking her up and out of the water, pushing her wet hair back from her face. “You’re all right,” her mother had said. Firm, clear, comforting.
“Come, sit,” Naomi said now in that exact same tone of voice.
Mary was a little mystified. Her mother was perched on top of one of the larger storage boxes, moved to the side just enough for Mary to have room as well. This was unusual. When her mother had asked her to help her in the attic, Mary assumed that there was some baking utensil or end-of-the-summer decoration her mother wanted brought down. It hadn’t occurred to her that her mother had wanted to sit in the warm attic and look at forgotten photos.
Mary sat down. Naomi was already digging through the box.
“Wait!” Mary stilled Naomi’s shuffling fingers with a hand and reached in to pull out some old Polaroids she’d never seen before. “Is this the day I was born?”
“Oh, don’t look at those. I look like I’d been baking on the side of the road for a week.”
But Mary was stunned. Her mother never looked less than perfect and here she was, so young it was almost painful to look at her, her blond hair messily pulled back, her cheeks red, her eyes swollen, staring at a little bundle in her arms in utter amazement. She’d never seen so much emotion on her mother’s face before. Mary dug through and found two more. All of them were obviously taken within the same few minutes. Because there was Mary’s wrinkled, mutinous face poking out from the hospital-issued pink-and-blue blanket, there were Mary’s parents beaming for the camera, looking like they’d been through the ordeal of a lifetime. And then, lastly, there was a photo of Naomi asleep with Mary on her chest. Naomi’s hair was sticking out every which way, her mouth gaping open she was sleeping so hard.
“I can’t believe you let someone take these,” Mary mused. Naomi did not approve of candids.
“I didn’t let anyone take them. Tiff insisted.” Naomi sniffed.
“She was at the hospital the day I was born?”
Naomi nodded. “She told me I’d treasure these photos one day.”
“And now they’re in a box in the attic,” Mary said drily.
“Well, I didn’t throw them away, did I? Here, put them back in. It’s not what I’m looking for.”
Mary did as she was told, but she watched her mother carefully. It was true that her mother hadn’t thrown the photos away. In a house with not an extra ounce of fat on its bones, maybe that really did mean that, in a way, her mother treasured these photos. It just also meant that her mother couldn’t bear to display a photo where she didn’t look Hollywood-ready. Mary reflected on all the photos in frames downstairs, family portraits taken by professionals, all of them. And even the ones in the albums were all particularly flattering to her mother.
There was a series of photos lining one hallway of her mother’s pageant days. Glamour shot after glamour shot of Naomi looking utterly stunning, even with her outdated coif of a hairdo and sparkly, outrageous gown. The only photo they had of Naomi showing any emotion other than a beatific smile was the single photo of the Miss Connecticut crown being placed on her head. Tears streamed down her face as she stared in shock out at the crowd. Mary had seen plenty of media representations of pageants in which the winner delivered a sort of practiced shock in order to endear herself to the crowd. But anyone who looked at that picture would know that Naomi truly hadn’t expected to win the title.
“Here,” Naomi said, shoving a small stack of photos into Mary’s hand. “This is what I wanted to show you.”
Mary thumbed through the photos. They were of her mother and father at various events. A couple shots from some barbecue, a few from school events of Mary’s. Mary was in early high school in these photos, her swim team sweats in one photo, a homecoming dress in another photo. Then there were two of her mother on her own, candids. Her slicing carrots for a salad in one of them and her in the driver’s seat in the other. In neither photo was she aware she was being photographed.
“Tiff took these ones too.” Mary knew instinctually.
“Tiff took pretty much every photo in this box.” She sniffed again. “She just loved taking bad pictures of me.”
Mary squinted up at her mother in surprise. “You think these photos are bad?”
To Mary’s eye, her mother looked relaxed and natural in the candids, as lovely as always. In the posed ones at the school events, her mother looked just how she’d remembered her looking from that time period. Nothing bad about it.
“You don’t see the crow’s-feet and the turkey wattle?” Naomi asked caustically, pointing at the virtually nonexistent flaws in each photo. “My hair was starting to change texture, and I had no idea how to style it yet. Hence that hairstyle. I’d started to gain weight too. Hadn’t yet joined Weight Watchers.”
“Mom...” Mary trailed off, shocked at her mother’s harsh appraisal of herself, at the realization that her mother kept a box of ugly photos tucked away in the attic.
“I wanted you to see these, Mary. Do you have any idea how old I am in these photos?”
Mary’s stomach dropped out, through her feet, through to the second floor of the house, and kept on going down to the kitchen and straight into the basement.
“I see you’ve upped the ante and decided to start harassing me with visual aids.” Mary was proud of herself for keeping any of her anger and outrage and pain out of her voice.
“I’m not harassing you, Mary. I’m trying to show you something. I wasn’t that much older than you in these pictures.”
These pictures, where, in Mary’s eyes, her mother looked utterly lovely. Yes, she looked forty years old. But she was forty years old. Where the hell was the crime in that?
Her mother stood suddenly, grabbing Mary’s hand and practically dragging her down the attic stairs. They wound up in the hallway with the pageant photos. Naomi pointed with a manicured, shaking finger at the beautiful twenty-year-old girl there. “You know the story, Mary. You know how your father and I met.”
“Dad was a dorky broadcasting guy up in the booth that day,” Mary said in a voice shaky from her adrenaline, from her disbelief at what was happening. “He fell in love with you during the competition and found you in the dressing room after you won. Brought you a bouquet of crappy daisies and asked you on a date.”
“Your father was not dorky,” Naomi claimed. “He was just...less fashionable than some other men. But he was kind to me. And sweet and smart.”
“Mom!” Mary took her mother by the shoulders. “How come you can’t defend yourself the way you just did Dad? He was totally a dork. A computer nerd. You are beautiful in these pictures.” Mary held up the plastic box. “Why can’t you see reality?”
“You have no idea, Mary,” Naomi hissed. “You have no idea how long it took for us to get pregnant. You have no idea what it’s like to really watch your body change with age. You have no idea—”
“You were twenty-five when you got pregnant! What do you mean it took you a long time?”
“All our friends were pregnant already. Your father and I took years, Mary. Do you know how humiliating that was? How happy I was when you were finally here?”
“No, Mom. I didn’t know any of that. Because you’ve been hiding the evidence in the attic like a crazy person.” Mary shook the box of photos. “I really can’t believe this is happening. You think that showing me these photos of you at age forty is going to scare me into running out and getting married and knocked up? You think I don’t know what it’s like to watch my body change as I age? You think I’m the exact same as I was in my twenties? You think I haven’t changed my style and my beauty care regimen and my exercise routine? I’m aware of my age, Mom. It just doesn’t affect my happiness.”
Naomi pinched the bridge of her nose. When she spoke, it was with a shaky, synthetic patience. “Your father fell in love with me because of my looks, Mary. At first, at least. When we’d been married and been through life together, he loved me for different reasons. He’s loyal and faithful and sweet. But it was this that got him. This.” She pointed again at the beautiful girl in the pageant photos. “And I’m begging you to keep an open mind.”
“An open mind?” Mary asked in confusion. “An open mind? You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re telling me to have an open mind? You’re the most closed-minded person in my life!”
Naomi reeled back. “I’m not closed-minded. I’m realistic. And it wouldn’t kill you to get your head out of the clouds.”
“Mom, I don’t have my head in the clouds. I started a business over from scratch. A successful business. I’ve almost doubled my savings in the last three years. I’ve picked up and rebuilt in just a few weeks since the break-in. I have valuable relationships.”
The doorbell rang and both Naomi and Mary jumped. The two women froze, eyeing one another.
A flash of guilt crossed Naomi’s face.
“Who’s at the door?” Mary asked suspiciously.
“I asked you to keep an open mind. Please, Mary.”
“Mom. Who. Is. At. The. Door.”
“I’ll get it!” her father yelled as he came up the basement steps, oblivious to the civil war that was breaking out in his own home.
“Mom—”
“Carver!” her father said in surprise at the front door, two rooms over. “What a surprise! Come in!”
“Sorry,” said a familiar voice that made Mary’s stomach plummet. “I didn’t mean for this to be a surprise. Naomi invited me for lunch.”
Mary took her mother by the elbow and dragged her up the second-floor stairs to the room where Mary was staying.
“Carver Reinhardt? Carver Reinhardt? Is this a joke? You invited my high school boyfriend here as a setup?”
“Open mind,” Naomi replied in a voice that was significantly less sure of herself than it had been for the last few minutes.
Maybe that was because Mary was actually letting her fury and outrage show on her face. She was done holding it back. She turned to her overnight bag and began stuffing her belongings back into it.
“What are you doing?” Naomi asked. “You’re packing?”
“I’m leaving. I’m going out the back door, and I’m getting on the train, and I’m going home.”
“Mary, you have a guest! You can’t just—”
“No. You have a guest. And I suddenly understand everything. I see exactly how little you think of me, Mom. How little I matter to you. I’m nothing because I don’t have a man or children. To you, I’ll always be half a person until I have those things.”
“Mary—”
“No. Don’t tell me that I’m wrong. I know I’m right. Otherwise you wouldn’t have invited Carver Reinhardt into my childhood home in some sort of sick setup.”
“Oh, forgive me for setting you up with a handsome, successful man.”
“I do not forgive you. For any of this. And I won’t be returning until I have an actual apology from you. Until you understand that I am a person. Full and complete. And so was Tiff. And if I choose to be buried between strangers, that does not make my life less significant than yours. This is beyond fucked up, Mom. I love you, but this is untenable. If you ever want to call me or come to Brooklyn, I’ll take the call. I’ll never turn you away. But I will not be calling you, and I will not be coming back here. Not until you apologize for this.”
Mary zipped her bag with a flourish, kissed her mother on the cheek and sneaked out the back.
THE NEXT DAY as he strode down the hall toward his office, John’s mind was deeply mulling the details of Hang Nguyen’s case. Her trial had been in full swing for the last two workdays, and after Hang took the stand this afternoon, things would come to a close. He knew better than to have high hopes, but what he did know was how hard he’d prepped for this case. How many extra hours had gone into it. And how much he truly, deeply believed in her innocence. He’d just come back from a meeting with her where they’d gone over her testimony, and if John did say so himself, he thought that her quiet, polite, eloquent honesty had a good chance of pushing her into the jury’s hearts.
John had his eyes on the email he was reading on his phone. It wasn’t the motion in his office that suddenly drew his eyes upward. No, it was the sudden lack of motion. John had the immediate impression of deer frozen in the headlights as he, one hand on the doorknob to his own office, looked up and absorbed a tableau of oh, shit.
Because Richie Dear was halfway crawled over top of his own desk, his shirt partially unbuttoned, his hair and reading glasses equally askew. And underneath Richie was a man. A man by the name of Crash Willis.
John took in the scene before him, outwardly placid, inwardly befuddled. Crash Willis? Richie was making out with Crash Willis?
John said nothing aloud, just let his eyes fall to the floor, where he saw a mess of papers and office supplies that had obviously been swept aside in the heat of the moment.
“You better not have broken my stapler again,” John said, almost nonsensical in his battle to understand whatever the hell was happening in front of him. “I had to buy the last one with my own money.”
“Ah. I’m...gonna go.” Crash’s voice was shockingly hoarse. Devoid of all bluster and irritating smugness that was usually sewn into the very fabric of his being.
John had the wherewithal to step into the hallway, give the two debauched men a moment to right themselves in their place of work. He heard a few rushed, intimate whispers, the rustle of clothing, and then Crash was practically sprinting down the hall, the back of his neck an electric pink.
John stepped back into his office and shut the door behind him. “Crash Willis?”
“Oh, shut up,” Richie said, sitting on his desk with his legs swinging in childish circles, one hand sliding down his face.
Richie looked just as chagrined as he did pleased with himself. Rumpled and confused and...thrilled.
“Richie,” John tried again, striding over and taking his friend by the shoulders. “Crash Willis.”
Richie laughed. “I know, John. I was there.”
John folded back into his own squeaky swivel chair and rested his temple on his closed fist, studying his best friend. “You’re what? Sleeping with the enemy?”
Richie’s feet swung in wider circles. “We haven’t quite gotten there yet, but I sure as shit hope that’s where this is heading.”
John groaned. “First a cop and now an ADA? What, do you have some sort of Darth Vader fetish or something?”
Richie laughed, and it was full of relief. John wondered if Richie had thought that he’d actually be mad at him over something like this. Richie looked so relieved that John was joking with him.
“Crash isn’t on the dark side. He’s just a douchebag. A little lost.”
“I didn’t even realize he was gay,” John mused.
“Yap. I’ve known since he started working here.” Richie studied his fingernails for a few seconds. “He doesn’t hide it. You’d know that if you ever did more than trade barbs with him.”
John frowned. What a weird freaking morning. Because here he was, feeling guilty about being a dick to Crash Willis.
“I...thought you had feelings for Hogan Trencher.”
Richie frowned, like he couldn’t believe that John could be this dense. “Hogan’s straight, John. Get over it.”
John was quiet for a minute, musing inwardly on how complicated it would be to have feelings for someone who didn’t, couldn’t ever, have feelings for you. He wasn’t exactly sure what was going on with Mary, but at least he knew that she found him to be handsome. There was that little nugget to cling to. He momentarily considered a world where Mary wouldn’t ever even find him attractive. How painful that would be. It was in that moment, no matter how John personally felt about Crash Willis, that he decided to be happy for Richie.
“Are you two dating?” he asked.
Richie grimaced. “I like him. He likes me. He’s not fooling around in anyone else’s office for now. Is that enough of an answer, Mom?”
John stared unseeingly out their shoebox-sized window. “Crash Willis,” he said again. “Well, I’m happy for you, Rich. Mazel.”
“Oh, John, you sentimental sap.”
Richie’s voice dripped with sarcasm, but John could read between the lines and see how much his approval meant to Richie.
“Besides,” Richie said, sitting on his chair and swiveling toward his desk, “now you and I are even.”
“Even?” John exclaimed. “For what?”
He put his foot on the side of Richie’s chair and swiveled him back around. He’d never in his life been caught necking in the office.
Richie had a sly smile on his face as he clicked a pen with annoying slowness. “For that show you put on at Mary’s party.”
John frowned. “There was no show.”
“Oh, for the love of God, John, there was a show. A freaking hawt show.”
John folded his arms over his chest. “We were just dancing.”
“That wasn’t dancing. That was foreplay.”
John grunted. “Foreplay implies there was play. And there was no play. I went home with you.”
“Foreplay doesn’t imply immediate play. And don’t tell me you don’t have plans to see her again soon. Don’t tell me you left her house without securing a playdate.”
John grunted again. He actually had left the house without securing a date. A fact that now seemed like a grossly incompetent oversight. Why hadn’t he shot his shot that night? Why hadn’t he laid it all out on the table for her? For God’s sake, the woman had pressed her cheek to his heartbeat. She’d smiled into his smile. He should have asked her on a date. He should have trusted the signs. John eyed Richie. “You, ah, think she was interested?”
Richie’s chin dropped two inches as he shot John a look dry enough to turn a grape into a raisin. “John” was all he said.
John’s foot bounced. “It’s just weird is all,” he eventually said. “I’ve spent so much time convincing people that there was nothing going on between us. My mom. My dad. Her friend Tyler.”
“Convincing?” Richie asked pointedly.
“Yeah. Everyone was skeptical.”
“John, have you ever stopped to really think about what that actually means that no one believed you? Not your mother, your father or her friend Tyler?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that there’s a reason you have to convince them that you two weren’t together.”
John cast his eyes down, frustrated and embarrassed. “Because my feelings for her are so freaking obvious.”
“No. Well, yes. But, jeez, you’re dense. That’s not what I’m talking about. So, listen closely because I’m only going to lay this out once. Nice and clear.” Richie clicked that pen again, faster this time. “All these people, including myself, think that you and she make sense together, John. When they ask if you’re together, what they’re really asking is Why not? Because they look at you and they think, Yup, there are two people who could really make a go of it.”
John stared at Richie. His friend was rarely this fired up outside of a courtroom. And apparently he wasn’t finished. Richie barreled on. “I truly think that you might be the only person on earth who looks at the two of you and thinks you’re not good enough for her. People aren’t thinking about you having to save money to take her out to a fancy birthday dinner. They aren’t imagining her in her Tom Ford shoes avoiding the loose nails in the floor of your tiny apartment. They aren’t wondering why in God’s name she would slum it with you. You’re the only one who asks those questions.”
John marveled inwardly at how well his best friend knew him. He opened his mouth to speak, but Richie kept going. “The rest of the world looks at you and thinks, Look at those two bighearted, kind, hardworking people. Don’t they make a handsome couple? So, why in God’s name can’t you see it, John? Why? You’re the only one left fighting this thing when you’re the one who actually wants to be with her. And don’t deny it, John. I’ve seen it on your grumpy-ass face. You look at Mary like all the light in the world originates from her. Stop telling yourself you can’t have her. Just stop it already.”
John just stared at Richie.
Richie glared back.
“Wow,” John eventually said. “I was gonna wait until she got back from Connecticut. But... I guess I’ll go call her?”
“Good.” Richie nodded his head, swiveled back to his desk and made several decisive swipes with his pen on whatever paper was in front of him.
John stepped out into the hallway and strode all the way down to the window at the end of the hall. Brooklyn sprawled out a few floors below. He watched people scurrying from place to place, guzzling water and trying to stay out of the blazingly direct sunlight.
“Hi,” Mary answered on the first ring.
“Hi,” he answered slowly, partly because his stomach was swooping and partly because she sounded different than she normally did. “I was going to wait to call you until you got back to Brooklyn. I didn’t want to interrupt your family time—”
“You’re not interrupting. I came home yesterday. Unexpectedly.”
He frowned. She sounded dull. Hurt. “Is everything all right?”
“Ugh. Yes. I just had a fight with my mother, and I needed to get back to reality before she got too far into my brain.”
“I’m sorry, Mary. I’ve definitely been there with my dad before.”
John wanted to know more. He wanted her to unload on him so that he could help carry some of the heaviness he could hear in her voice. But he had to be in court in twenty minutes, and he assumed that she was at work as well. Besides, maybe that was better done in person?
He took a deep breath.
“I was calling because I was hoping to see you this week. Are you free anytime? I could just pop by the shop.”
She paused, his stomach plummeted.
“Will you make me dinner instead?” she asked.
His stomach took off like a Fourth of July firework. He actually felt a little ill with how fast it swooped. Making someone dinner was a date-like thing to do.
“I know it’s presumptuous to invite myself over to your place,” she said. “But it’s been a hell of a couple weeks, and I just want a beer and something simple to eat, and I want to pet Ruth.”
John blinked. He...kind of couldn’t believe his ears? Because this was Mary Trace on the other end of the line. She was asking for Ruth. And for a simple meal. And his studio apartment. She was asking him for a whole lot of things that he could absolutely give her. What a freaking world.
“I—Yes. Of course. Anything.” He cleared his throat. “What day are you free?”
“Thursday.”
John felt a bite of disappointment. It was only Monday and that felt like an interminably long wait to him. He imagined a movie star happening into her shop tomorrow, falling in love with her on sight and whisking her away to Ibiza.
No. It was just three days. He could be patient. And besides, this was his moment. This was what Richie was talking about. John had an opportunity to tell Mary exactly what he was hoping to have happen between them. And that was all he could really do, lay it all out there for her. If he was lucky, she’d want something similar to what he wanted. But he was never going to know if he didn’t take this chance. If he didn’t treat Thursday like the stroke of heavenly opportunity that it really was. He could be bummed that he wasn’t going to see her for half a week, or he could treat this as if the cosmic cogs of kismet had all ticktocked into perfect sync in order to create this little window of a moment.
Thursday. What couldn’t happen on a Thursday? Thursday was a gift from God.
“Perfect.” He checked his calendar. “Eight o’clock work for you?”
“It does.”
“See you then, Mary.”
“See you then, John.”
MARY HUNG UP the phone and stared unseeingly down the cereal aisle.
“This ain’t your living room, honey,” a woman said at Mary’s shoulder, muscling past her with her grocery cart and giving Mary the stink eye for blocking the way.
Mary shook her head. Right. She was in public. Her heart was galloping, she had underboob sweat and she was in public.
The last twenty-four hours had been a mess. Mary had yo-yoed from outrage to pain to everything in between.
Mary pushed thoughts of her judgmental mother from her brain and thought instead back to Friday night. John’s confident hands at her back, her cheek over his heartbeat.
She grabbed cereal off the shelf and tossed it into her cart, moving to the next aisle. She thought of John smoothing the strap of her sundress over her shoulder, the weight of his hand at her collarbone.
“John likes me,” she told herself.
I was expecting someone younger.
Different stages of life.
Interestingly enough, when Mary heard those two phrases this time, they were in her mother’s voice in her head, not John’s. Those two simple sentences didn’t paint a very flattering picture of how John felt about her. But she was done letting those handfuls of words outweigh everything else. The way he’d smiled at her on the dance floor. His hand at her back when she’d met his father. His fingers laced with hers on the train. He’d given her his bed, for goodness’ sake.
And the hug. She could finally let herself think of the way he’d held her in her kitchen after the break-in.
It had been medicine, that hug.
Maybe she’d even known then, that things had changed between the two of them. Because those kinds of hugs were rare. And he’d given her two of them.
John liked her. Maybe, technically, she wasn’t quite sure if Thursday was a date or not. And maybe, technically, she still hadn’t seen his eyes track her up and down the way they had that waitress, but he’d danced with her like he’d wanted her. And that was enough for her. For now, that was enough.