rel="nofollow" href="#ud281eb0c-c436-5522-abe6-d4afcfd0ddfc">CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER ONE
TODAY WAS THE day.
There’d be hugs and smiles, reminiscences and laughter.
And apologies. Of course there’d be apologies. But they’d be accepted and waved aside because best friends stood by each other. Always.
Today was the day.
If Emma Willoughby repeated it to herself often enough, this time it might come true.
Standing in the parking lot next to clumps of cheery daffodils, she checked her purse to make sure Tracy’s gift was inside. She silenced her cell phone. She pasted a friendly smile on her face, passed under the grand portico and headed toward the massive glass doors of Greenhaven Rehabilitation Center.
The doors slid open as she neared. On previous visits, she’d recognized people in the lobby—elderly actors recovering from strokes, aging politicians recovering from hip surgeries, elite athletes recovering from injuries. But in nearly six months, she’d never caught a glimpse of Tracy.
The Sunday receptionist, Francie, looked up to greet her, recognition stealing the beginnings of a smile from her face.
Today, Emma silently prayed.
Francie pushed her rhinestone glasses up the bridge of her nose, tugged the lapels of her aquamarine polyester jacket tightly together and sent an icy glance toward a tall, aging security guard, who stepped forward to block Emma’s path. In all the months Emma had been coming here, this was the first time Francie, Greenhaven’s gatekeeper, had set a guard on her.
“Young lady, I’m terribly sorry.”
Emma’s smile weakened. She would not give up. She would keep coming every Sunday until someone let her in. Tracy’s family couldn’t keep her out forever.
“I know I can’t go inside, Francie.” Emma reached into her purse for her gift—a Carina Career doll. She’d been handing the receptionist a doll every Sunday for months. This week Carina was an astronaut. The dolls were meant as a reminder of their friendship and to let her best friend know Emma believed she still had plenty of choices ahead of her. “Could you please give this to Tracy?”
Francie blanched. “I can’t take that. Tracy Jackson is no longer a patient in this facility.”
Emma felt a moment’s panic. “What do you mean?”
“Tracy Jackson is no longer a patient in this facility,” Francie repeated. She glanced at the security guard once more, a disapproving line deepening her already furrowed brow. “I must ask you to leave.”
Tracy was dead.
Emma tried to form a word—any word—that would refute that possibility. But the air in the lobby had become thick and heavy—suffocating—until Emma knew she was going to collapse if she didn’t move.
On a gasp of air, she spun and ran to her car parked at the far edge of the visitors’ section. The chilly bay breeze clawed at the hem of her dress, buffeted her hair. By the time she reached the new Subaru, she was shaking so badly she dropped her purse to the ground and leaned against the car door as memories assailed her.
She and Tracy on the bank of the Harmony River building a mud fort for frogs. She and Tracy dreaming about different futures in the Carina Career section of the toy store. Tracy bursting into their dorm room doing an uncoordinated victory dance after landing an internship at an ad agency. And then the most painful memory—Tracy’s near-lifeless body, head smashed against the passenger window of Emma’s car. And everywhere...blood.
They’d known each other since they were three, and yet Tracy’s family hadn’t let her say goodbye, hadn’t let Emma know she had died.
But why would they?
Emma had been driving the car that caused the accident, the accident that had put Tracy in the hospital, the accident with killing complications.
A violent, shuddering sob threatened to break her into sharp, tiny pieces. Tremors shot to her fingertips. Useless fingers that had been unable to draw or paint since the accident. Emma ached to create from a blank page or canvas again, but if an empty, soulless existence was her penance for the accident, so be it.
Francie appeared at the Subaru’s fender, huffing and clutching a shoebox under her arm. “She’s not dead.”
Emma’s limbs turned to liquid and she slid to the ground, landing on her tailbone, asphalt scraping her legs. She ignored the pain. Tracy was alive.
“There, there.” Francie knelt beside Emma, smelling of breath mints and garlic. “Company policy forbids me from telling you what happened, but you came every Sunday for more than five months. It broke my heart to turn you away.”
“Thank you for telling me,” Emma choked out.
“Are you okay to drive? Want me to call someone?”
Granny Rose. Her grandmother had practically raised Emma while her mother established a career as a cutthroat trial attorney. After Tracy, it was Granny Rose that Emma turned to with her problems. She had always looked up to her grandmother’s wisdom, wit and courage. But Granny Rose was eighty and lived hours away in Harmony Valley, in the northernmost corner of Sonoma County.
“Fine. I’m fine.” Or she would be when she could catch her breath. Emma scrubbed at her eyes. “Do you...do you know where Tracy is?” It would be exactly like Tracy’s self-made millionaire brother, Will, to have found a specialist in Switzerland and moved her there.
“Francie!” a male voice rumbled from beneath the portico. “I hear you talking to that girl. Don’t make trouble for yourself.”
Francie frowned and pressed the shoebox into Emma’s hands. “I can’t say more, but I wanted you to have this.” Using the car for balance, the receptionist stood. “You take care.”
Emma lifted the shoebox lid. More than twenty thumb-size Carina Career dolls stared vacantly up at her, one for every week Emma had tried to come and visit Tracy.
A slip of paper was tucked in the corner of the box.
Had Tracy written her a note?
Emma reached for the paper with trembling fingers.
An invitation to visit? Or a request to stay away?
An address was scrawled in thin, spidery handwriting on Greenhaven stationery, too neat to have been written by her friend. Emma made out a familiar address in Harmony Valley.
Tracy’s.
* * *
“THIS IS GOING to be good.” The false enthusiasm left a sour taste in Will Jackson’s mouth. He opened the front door of his childhood home. “Dad’s been lonely with both of us gone. And now he’ll have a full house. You and me, just like old times.”
Tracy walked in, looking to all appearances like any other twenty-six-year-old in blue jeans, a beige T-shirt and short, tousled
