nice.”
“A promotion would be nicer.”
“Don’t push it, John.”
“No me, no trade journals.”
Harriet didn’t say anything. She was silent for so long, Chen grew worried he had overplayed his hand.
Then she said, “Come early. We’ll talk about it.”
Chen hung up. He had no idea what she was talking about.
Chen shouted, “YES!”
John Chen, soon-to-be owner of a shiny black Tesla, jumped to his feet and danced around his apartment. Naked.
58.
Isabel
Nine days after the events in Malibu, Isabel sat with Carly and her mom in their kitchen. Carly’s mom was named Joyce. When Izzy and Carly were small, they called each other’s mothers Ms. Knox and Ms. Roland. Later, when they turned twelve or thirteen, Carly began calling Izzy’s mom Debra Sue (or, sometimes, Debbie), and Izzy called Carly’s mom Joyce. Joyce was still making peace with all these names.
“I just don’t see Deb as a DeeAnn. I don’t care what they say, DeeAnn doesn’t fit her. And your dad? He’s an Ed. Always was, always will be.”
They were drinking chamomile tea with honey and milk.
Carly said, “Mom. Izzy’s going to sell the house.”
Joyce sat back.
“Are you getting married?”
Isabel tried not to laugh. Carly rolled her eyes.
“Jesus, Mom. Really?”
“I’m kidding.”
Joyce reached across the table, and took Izzy’s hand.
“You okay with selling?”
“I think so. I’m not really sure.”
“Money?”
“For sure, but ever since—”
Izzy gripped Joyce’s hand.
“I don’t know. Ever since those people, they were in it, they were watching me—”
She faded away, and ended up shaking her head.
“I feel sad all the time. And weird.”
Joyce rubbed her hand.
“You can stay here. You’re always welcome here. You know that, don’t you?”
Carly said, “I told her.”
Joyce smiled, and rubbed her hand again.
“People get born, grow up, and move on. Mom and Dad die, the old place gets sold. That was your mom and dad’s house, but if you’re worried they wouldn’t like it, stop being silly. They wouldn’t mind. That house served its purpose. They made a home for you in it. Now you’re grown, they’re gone, and you should do whatever in hell you want. Your mother—my friend—would be the first to tell you.”
Izzy gripped the older woman’s hand with both of hers.
“I love you, Joyce.”
“I know, sweetie. I love you, too.”
Joyce sat back, and grew thoughtful. She patted Izzy’s hand, then let go and sighed.
“I miss your mom. I miss your dad, too, but—”
Izzy smiled.
“I know. You were besties. Like us.”
She glanced at Carly, and Carly beamed.
“Yes, we were. Since you girls were two.”
Joyce fell silent. Izzy thought she might be thinking of those days. Then Joyce pushed back from the table and left the room.
“I’ll be back. Have more tea.”
As soon as her mother left, Carly leaned closer.
“Have you seen him again?”
Carly was totally crushing on Joe.
“Just twice.”
“You should do him. I would so totally do him.”
“You’re gross.”
Carly clutched her arm, being dramatic.
“I would beg him. I would say, breed me!”
“You are so far beyond gross. You’re disgusting.”
“Tell me you haven’t thought about it.”
“It’s not like that. He’s—”
“Male?”
“—kinda weird.”
“I hate you.”
“He’s a really nice man. Kinda distant? I don’t know how to say it. He’s nice.”
Joyce came back, and plopped into her chair. She brought back an envelope. It was white, thick with whatever was inside, and sealed with tape. Joyce set the envelope in front of Isabel.
Izzy’s name and address were written on the envelope in her mother’s hand.
“Mom?”
“This is yours. Five weeks before she died, she asked me to keep it for you.”
Isabel looked at the envelope, but did not touch it.
“What is it?”
“Considering what we now know, I’d guess it’s the truth. I’m breaking a promise by giving it to you, but what with all this drama, well, you should have it.”
“What did you promise?”
“She asked me to hold it until you were twenty-five. I don’t know why. She just did. But hell, you’re almost twenty-three, and look what just happened.”
Joyce pushed the envelope closer.
“Here.”
Isabel picked up the envelope, and turned it over. She pinched the corner, and started to open it.
Joyce touched her hand.
“Baby. This is between you and your mother. She wrote it for you. Take it home. Don’t read it with us. Read it with her.”
Isabel fingered the edge of the envelope.
She smiled at Joyce, and Joyce patted her hand.
59.
Joe Pike
Eleven days after the events in Malibu, Pike sat with Isabel on the edge of her porch. The azure sky was cloudless. The recent rains were so deep in yesterday they seemed like someone else’s memory.
Isabel said, “I don’t know what to do.”
Pike paged through the letter as