Outside, it had started to rain.
My phone buzzed again.
Another text from Penelope.
*I’ve been thinking about names.
I want to run one by you.
Can we talk tonight?*
I showed it to Joel.
He read it.
His expression didn’t change.
“She has no idea,” he said.
“No,” I said.
“She doesn’t.”
And for the first time since I’d walked out of that coffee shop, I felt something shift inside me.
Not anger.
Something quieter than anger.
I picked up my phone and typed back: *Let’s talk tomorrow.
I’ll come to you.*
Her reply came in seconds.
*Perfect.
I’ll make lunch.
I have so much to tell you.*
I set the phone down.
So did I.
Diane’s office was on the fourth floor of a building downtown, small and practical, with a window that looked out over a parking structure.
She had coffee ready when Joel and I arrived.
