And Emily pipes up, “They were having some issues though, Cam. You know that.”

They both glance at me, quickly, then at each other, and I know what this is about.

“Tripp told me,” I tell them, “that there were rumors about Eddie and Blanche.”

Another shared glance, and I think they might try to bullshit me, but then Emily shrugs and says, “I mean. They were spending a lot of time together. And Bea was never around.”

“Never,” Campbell says, shaking her head. “That company was her whole life. Especially in those last few months. We barely ever saw her.”

“That’s true,” Emily adds. “When we first moved into the neighborhood, Bea definitely spent more time with us.” She smiles, tapping my binder. “She did stuff like this. But last spring, she was missing meetings, passing on parties…”

“But do you think…” I let the question dangle, and I see them look at each other again.

“No,” Emily finally says. “But Bea and Blanche were kind of weird right before all of it happened.”

Campbell sucks in a breath, sitting back in her chair, her gaze again darting to Emily.

“What?” Emily asks her, sipping her coffee. “It’s true, and they’re both dead. It’s not like it can hurt anyone now to acknowledge it. Besides,” she adds, waving a hand, rings throwing off showers of sparks, “it wasn’t anything juicy. I think it had to do with Bea’s mom or something. Back before Eddie was even in the picture.”

I can see where that kind of gossip isn’t interesting to them, but damn, do I wish I knew more about it. Hearing that Bea and Blanche had some kind of tension isn’t new—Tripp had said the same thing—but why, exactly? I know there is something in that friendship that I am missing, and I can’t shake the thought that figuring it out is key to understanding Eddie. I try another angle. “Did Bea have a temper?”

Both women laugh, shaking their heads as Campbell takes the lid off her coffee to drain the cup.

“Oh my god, no,” Emily says. “She was sweet as pie. Tough, sure, ambitious and all that. But a real doll. I never saw her get mad at anybody. Not even when that catering company she hired completely screwed up her and Eddie’s anniversary party. It was supposed to be Hawaiian luau-themed, but they brought, I don’t remember, what was it, Cam?”

“Finger food,” she replies. “Like it was a tea party. Little cucumber sandwiches, petit fours, that kind of thing. Bea just laughed it off. Eddie was the one who—”

She stops abruptly, glancing at me, then shrugs it off. “Anyway, no, Bea never even got mildly irritated as far as I could tell.”

Silence descends, hanging awkwardly between us for a moment before Emily asks brightly, “So, are we all going to the country club tomorrow night?”

Oh, right. Another fundraiser, another thing stuck on my fridge because I’m one of these women now, the kind who goes to fundraisers at country clubs.

I smile at them.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

As we stand up to leave, Campbell’s eyes slide down my body. “Wow,” she says. “You look … great, Jane. Really.”

“Doesn’t she?” Emily says, giving me another pat on the arm. “I think she might wear pencil skirts even better than Bea, and that was, like, her entire thing.”

She’s still smiling, but something about the comment bugs me. I hadn’t consciously been emulating Bea, but I see now how I must look like I put on a Bea costume for this meeting. Me and my pencil skirt and binder, like some kind of pale imitation.

The ghost of Bea.

The thought unsettles me all the way home, and when I come in, I look at myself in the hall mirror.

My hair brushes my shoulders in the same long bob Bea wore. The earrings I’m wearing remind me of ones I’ve seen in pictures of her.

I’m even wearing the same shade of red lipstick.

Turning away, I pick up my purse, taking the binder back out.

She did stuff like this.

Do I want to be the new Bea to these people? Or do I want them to accept me as Jane?

I don’t know anymore.

My phone buzzes, and I sigh, reaching into my bag to fish it out.

It’s a text from John.

Hey, friendo, it starts, and fuck me, I hate him so much.

Little short on cash this week. Another $500 should cover it. You can mail it again. Cash. Xo

My fingers hover over the keys.

I could tell him to fuck off.

I could text Eddie.

And then I reach into my purse and pull out the folded sheet of paper, the one Eddie gave me with the Phoenix number scrawled across it.

Or I could find out who’s looking for me. What they actually want. What they know.

And finally put this all to rest, so that I can move on with my life.

Fingers trembling, I start to dial.

26

The Baptist church where John works isn’t one of the bigger congregations in the area. In the South, I’ve noticed, some churches take up entire blocks.

John’s hardly looks like a church at all. It’s a squat, ugly brick building, and only the stained-glass window of Jesus surrounded by lambs tips you off to the fact that it’s a house of worship.

I’ve dressed in one of my best outfits today, a blue pleated skirt with a white boatneck blouse, paired with blue-and-white-striped ballet flats and silver jewelry. When I’d looked in the mirror this morning, I almost hadn’t recognized myself. I didn’t look like the Jane I’d been two months ago, but I also didn’t look like I was trying to copy Emily or Campbell.

Or Bea.

I looked like … me.

Whoever that was turning out to be.

My shoulders are back as I open the door, my head high, and when I step inside, the girl sitting at the desk gives me a bright smile.

She probably thinks I’m here to donate money.

She’s half-right.

“Hiiiiii,” I drawl, sliding my sunglasses up on my head. “Is John Rivers here?”

I don’t miss it, the way her smile droops just the littlest bit.

I feel you, girl.

“He’s in the music room,” she says, pointing down the hall, and I thank her.

The church smells like burnt coffee and old paper, the linoleum squeaking under my shoes as I make my way to a room at the end of the hall where I can already hear jangling guitar chords.