I shook my head.
“What are you talking about?”
“And when you find out,” she continued, her voice trembling, “I’m afraid you’ll never want to see me again.”
For a moment, I couldn’t speak.
This was the woman who knew everything about me.
My childhood fears.
My marriage.
My happiest memories.
My deepest regrets.
She’d shared countless dinners with Robert and me.
She’d been welcomed into our home whenever she wanted.
And after my husband died, she’d become the person I relied on most.
Yet now she was sitting beside me, speaking as though our entire friendship had been built around something I didn’t understand.
“Susan,” I whispered, “what have you done?”
She wiped her cheek.
“I can’t explain everything tonight.”
“Why not?”
“Because tomorrow, you’ll understand.”
I stared at the phone lying between us on the beach towel.
Something about her expression told me this wasn’t a small misunderstanding or an embarrassing confession.
