All We Ever Wanted(34)

Dear Thomas,

My name is Nina Browning. I’m Finch’s mother. I know you met my husband today, and he shared with me a bit about your conversation. I’m not sure how you are feeling, but I believe that more needs to be said and done to make things right….I was wondering if you’d consider meeting me to talk? I really hope you say yes. More important, I hope Lyla is doing okay, in spite of the horrible thing my son did to her. I’m thinking of you both.

Sincerely,

Nina



I quickly proofread, then sent it before I could change my mind or even tweak any of the wording. The swoosh sound filled my office, and for a second, I regretted making contact. For one, I knew Kirk would view it as a strategic blunder and an even greater betrayal of him and Finch. For another, and from a strictly practical standpoint, what was I going to say to this man if he agreed to meet with me?

Just as I convinced myself it was a moot point because Thomas likely wouldn’t write back (after all, he had taken Kirk’s cash), his name popped onto my computer screen. My heart quickening with a mix of relief and dread, I went to my in-box, opened the email, and read: Tomorrow 3:30 pm @Bongo East? Tom.

That works, I typed, my hands shaking. See you then.



* * *



—

THE FOLLOWING MORNING was nothing short of torture as I paced around the house, stared at the clock, and counted down the minutes until my appointment with Tom. At eleven, I made myself go to a meditation class with one of my most Zen instructors, but it did no good whatsoever. A jangled mass of nerves, I came home, showered, and blew out my hair. It came out a little too full and “done,” so I put it in a ponytail, then loosened a few strands around my face. I did my makeup with a light touch, skipping eyeliner altogether, then went to my closet to pick out an outfit. The transitional spring weather is always tricky, especially when it comes to footwear. It was too warm for boots, too chilly for sandals. Pumps felt too dressy, and flats stripped me of confidence—which I very much needed. I finally selected a simple nude wedge and a navy-blue DVF wrap dress. I kept my jewelry simple with diamond studs and my wedding band, removing my showier engagement ring. I knew it was ridiculously superficial to focus so much on appearances at a time like this, editing such small details, but I also believe that first impressions matter, and I wanted to show him respect without being at all ostentatious.

   Overcompensating for Nashville traffic and my own tendency to run late, I arrived at Five Points twenty minutes early, finding one of only three parking spots in front of the small stand-alone building housing the East End coffee shop. I’d never been inside before, but I’d passed it plenty of times and remembered Finch telling me that it was also known as Game Point. I could see why. On the back wall, simple wood-and-iron shelves were lined with more than a hundred board games, many of them vintage, all available for patrons to play. Nearby, an older couple played Battleship. They looked to be newly dating, very happy. At other tables sat many solo customers, most with laptops or reading material.

I got in a very short line, scanning a colorful chalkboard menu. I ordered a latte and a sweet-potato white-chocolate muffin that looked interesting but that I knew I probably wouldn’t eat because my stomach was in knots. I paid, dropping a dollar bill into a tip jar that read: AFRAID OF CHANGE? LEAVE IT HERE!, then stood to the side, waiting for a tattooed male barista to make my drink. Glancing around, I took note of the exposed HVAC lining the industrial ceiling, the concrete floor painted evergreen, and the bright sunlight filtering through high glass-block windows. The place was so mellow, a vibe unlike the Starbucks and juice bars in my neighborhood. When my latte was ready, I took it from the counter, along with the muffin they’d microwaved and put on a plate, and found a table against the wall close to the game corner. I sat in the chair facing the door, where I sipped my coffee and waited.

   At exactly three-thirty, a man of average height and build walked in and glanced around. He looked slightly too young to have a teenager, but as his eyes rested on me, I felt sure that it was Tom Volpe.

I did a half stand and mouthed his name. He was probably too far away to read my lips, but he clearly got the gist of my body language, because he nodded, lowered his head, and walked toward me. With brown hair a little on the longer side, a couple days of beard growth, and a strong jaw, he looked like a carpenter. A second later, he was standing at the edge of my table, looking right at me. I stood the whole way. “Tom?” I said.

“Yes,” he said in a low, deep voice. He did not initiate a handshake, or smile, or do any of the typical things people do when they meet, yet there was nothing about him that seemed hostile. His demeanor was a small relief but almost more unsettling than anger. It gave me no starting point.

“Hi,” I said, running my palms along the sides of my dress. “I’m Nina.”

“Yes,” he said. His gaze was empty.

“It’s nice to meet you,” I blurted out, instantly regretting it, as there was nothing nice about this moment—and we both knew it.

But he let me off the hook, announcing that he was going to get a coffee, then turned abruptly and headed toward the cash register. I waited a few seconds before sitting back down, then looked over my shoulder, covertly studying him further. He appeared fit and athletic, or at least naturally strong. He was wearing faded blue jeans, an untucked gray Henley, and rugged boots that were hard to put in a category. They weren’t country or western, nor were they of the lug-sole “workman” variety. And they certainly weren’t at all Euro or trendy, like the ones lining the shelves of Kirk’s closet.