Good as Dead(53)

Obviously not a bottle of wine, that would be macabre. And she was such a good baker, she didn’t need my cookies—plus I’d already done that, when I thought there was a man around the house to eat them. Flowers seemed inappropriate—nobody died, thank God. And she had brought me that beautiful orchid, I didn’t want to be a copycat.

The old me would have known exactly what to bring. I used to be confident about these things, and about myself. But I had grown to question everything, from what to bring to a sick friend, to what kind of person I had become.

I decided on a fruit basket. Everybody likes fruit—it’s sweet and colorful and doesn’t make you fat. I packed the basket myself, with apples, pears, kiwis, grapes, and tangerines—best I could do given the season—then wrapped it in plastic and secured it with a cheery yellow ribbon. I waited until late morning, when I knew Savannah would be in school, then walked across the street and rang the bell.

Holly had only been home from the hospital for a few hours, but I didn’t want her to be alone that first day back. I wanted her to know she had friends who cared about her, who she could talk to. Yes, I was curious why my husband’s A-list employer owned her house, but I would not bring it up. I wanted her to feel supported, not judged. So I would stifle my curiosity and just be her friend.

Holly answered the door wearing baggy USMC sweatpants and a plain white T-shirt. Without makeup she looked so young! If her daughter had looked anything like her, they could have passed for sisters.

“I brought you some fruit,” I said, and she smiled a little, like people do when they are too embarrassed to say anything. “I know you probably need to rest, but I didn’t want you to be alone today,” I added by way of apology, but also so she would know I was not about to let her do this again. Savannah had texted me that the blood work showed no permanent damage, but she would be suffering from what felt like a really bad hangover for at least a couple of days.

“That’s so kind of you,” Holly said, eyeing the shiny red apples and twirls of green grapes. Then she got suddenly sad. “I can’t imagine what you must think of me.”

“I can’t imagine what you must think of me!” I said, redirecting all shame and regret onto myself. “I knew you were going through a difficult time, and I wasn’t there for you, I’m a terrible friend. Forgive me.”

She twisted her hair with a nervous finger as she met my gaze. “I just put some coffee on,” she started, and I couldn’t tell if she wanted to invite me in or get rid of me.

“If you want to be alone, I would of course understand,” I said in a tone that suggested leaving her alone was not an option. “But you don’t have to be,” I continued. “I put my favorite pears in that basket without saving any for myself, they would go great with that coffee you are making!” OK, not very subtle, but I really didn’t want her to send me away.

“If you don’t mind me looking like this,” she said, indicating her makeup-less face. I smiled with relief.

“Are you kidding? You look absolutely radiant!” I countered. “If I had skin like yours, I wouldn’t wear a scrap of makeup, ever!”

And now her smile was genuine. She opened the door wider, and I stepped inside.

“I can smell the coffee from here,” I said, breathing in the rich caramelly aroma. Her house was immaculate. Or, I should probably say, Jack Kimball’s house was immaculate, given that I knew he was the one who owned it. I pushed the thought away. This was not the time to reveal I had stumbled upon the identity of Happy Accident Enterprises. I was here as a friend, not a nosy Nancy.

I sliced the pears as she poured me a cup of Peet’s best dark roast, and we settled into her sunny breakfast nook. I had intended to keep the conversation light, with talk of my second grader declaring she had a boyfriend, and my befuddlement that the gardenias I planted last spring were all dying. But she wanted to tackle the elephant in the room, so I followed her lead.

“Evan told me you helped him, y’know . . . ,” she began, then looked down at her fingernails. I noticed she had let her manicure go, they were chipped and uneven just like mine.

“Right place, right time,” I said, trying to defuse the gravity of what had happened. “He would have been just fine without me.” I was all too happy to let him be the hero. Truth is, besides steering her waterlogged legs onto his back seat, I didn’t really do a thing.

“It’s kind of a miracle that he found me,” she said, then went on to explain, “I guess he got some sort of flood alert, he thought he was just coming over to reset the alarm.” It was clear she still wanted me to think they weren’t together. If her suicide attempt was spurred by guilty feelings about the relationship, I didn’t want to push. So I let it ride.

“Well, thank goodness for that alarm,” I said, then couldn’t help myself from adding, “but honestly, I think people have a sixth sense about their loved ones.” I told her about an incident Margaux once had in a community pool. A girl who couldn’t swim had followed her into the deep end, then started to panic when she realized she was in over her head. My nose was in a book—Margaux was a good swimmer, and there was a lifeguard on duty—but the moment the panicked girl grabbed on to my daughter, I felt an urgent impulse to look up. I was in that water in three seconds flat. “I think we can sense when the people we care about are in trouble,” I opined.