Who is Maud Dixon?(60)

“I’m on vacation with a college friend,” Whitney said. “We just got to Semat this morning. We’ve been in the Atlas Mountains for a few days.”

Whitney had worked hard in high school, but she had never been as good a student as Florence, and it still stuck in her craw that Whitney’s father—Florence’s dentist—had paid full tuition at Emory while Florence had been shunted off to UF like everyone else.

“What are you doing here?” Whitney asked.

“Working, sort of.”

“Really? What do you do?”

“I’m—well, it’s a long story. I’m doing research.”

“How cool! Are you still in publishing?”

“Yes, pretty much.”

“That’s so great. I’m really happy for you. You always loved books.”

Florence had noticed that people who didn’t feel the way she did about literature—that it was, as much as biology or physics, one of life’s organizing principles—regarded it as little more than a collection of physical objects: books. Did they think the power of music could be whittled down to the look and feel of a violin string? In fact, Florence did love books—the smell of the binding, the roughness of the pages—but they were nothing compared to the magnitude of what was inside them.

“What about you?” Florence asked. “What are you up to these days?”

“I’m a project manager at Verizon in Tampa. I tried Atlanta for a while, but I missed the beach and my family. And Verizon is just, like, the best place to work.”

Florence remembered that Whitney’s great social failing in high school had been her unchecked enthusiasm at a time of life when most people they knew would have gnawed an arm off before expressing any form of eagerness, about anything.

Whitney suddenly closed her eyes and took a deep breath through her nose. She reached out and took Florence’s hands. She had always been a toucher. “Actually, Florence, can I just say? I feel like this is fate, running into you here, because there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you for months.”

Florence couldn’t imagine what Whitney could possibly have to say to her after six years of little to no contact.

“Trevor and I are seeing each other,” she said all in a rush.

Florence struggled to keep a smile from her face. “That’s great, Whitney. I don’t mind. Really. We dated a long time ago. It feels like another lifetime, back when we were very different people.”

Whitney exhaled loudly. “Oh my gosh, I’m so relieved. We’ve both been feeling wracked by guilt.” Florence could believe it of Whitney, but she doubted that Trevor, whose two great passions when she’d known him had been Minecraft and Ayn Rand, felt much remorse.

“Hey, babe.” They both turned. There was Nick, clutching a sack of bright orange turmeric in his big, paw-like hand.

“Hi,” Florence said tightly, realizing all of a sudden the predicament she was in.

“Hey, I’m Nick,” he said to Whitney when Florence failed to introduce them.

“I’m Whitney. I grew up with—”

“Whitney and I grew up together!” Florence interjected loudly.

“Oh, wow,” said Nick. “Small world.”

“Whitney’s traveling around Morocco with a friend of hers from college.”

“Awesome.”

“It’s been super awesome,” Whitney said.

Florence glanced around. “Is she here?”

“Amy? No, she’s passed out at the hotel. We had a very late night last night.”

“Niiice,” said Nick.

A silence settled on the three of them.

“Well you should totally come hang out with us tonight,” Nick said, turning toward Florence. “Right, babe?”

Florence frowned. This “babe” business had come on fast and strong. “Oh, it sounds like Whitney could use a quiet night,” she said.

“I’d love to, actually,” Whitney said. “It’d be fun to catch up. I just need to check with Amy when she wakes up.” She pulled out her phone. “Do you still have your same number?”

Florence shook her head. Getting a New York area code had been one of the first things she’d done after moving. She recited her 917 number as Whitney punched it in.

“Wait, you don’t have your phone,” Nick interjected.

“Oh. Right.” She turned to Whitney. “I lost it in the accident.”

“Here, take mine,” Nick said, rattling off his number for Whitney.

“Amazing. I’ll call you when I know our plans. I think Amy already made us dinner reservations, but if she’s up for it, we’ll come meet you after.” She took Florence’s hands again and looked her in the eye. “I can’t tell you how glad I am that I ran into you.”

“Okay,” Florence said lamely.

When she had gone, Nick turned and asked, “What’s up? You don’t like her?”

“No, I do, I just—I don’t know. I was surprised to see her, that’s all.”

Nick took his hand in hers as they walked out into the bright noonday light. Suddenly, Florence heard a now-familiar voice behind her: “Madame Weel-cock.”

She spun around.