When Emma was occupied, James looked back at Sophia. Eliza died eighteen months ago, car accident. The colour drained from Sophia’s face.
Oh, my God. James, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.
It’s been— Difficult, he admitted, the understatement of the century hanging between them. Sophia knelt beside the table, her eyes welling with tears. Eliza was my best friend for years.
We lost touch after college and— She glanced at Emma. This must be your daughter. She looks so much like her.
Yes, James nodded. Emma was barely three when it happened. She still asks when mummy’s coming home.
An awkward silence fell between them, filled with unspoken grief and shock. Finally, Sophia stood up. I should get back to work.
But maybe we could catch up sometime. I’d love to hear about Eliza’s life, if that wouldn’t be too painful. Before James could respond, his phone rang.
Victoria’s name flashed on the screen. I need to take this, he said apologetically. It’s my mother-in-law.
Sophia nodded, understanding. Of course. As she walked away, James answered the call.
Hey, Victoria. James, where are you? I stopped by the house with Emma’s new shoes, but you weren’t home. We’re having lunch at Bayside Bistro, he answered, watching as Sophia returned to her other tables.
That place again? Victoria’s voice held a note of disapproval. Eliza always said their food was overpriced. James closed his eyes briefly.
Emma wanted mac and cheese. Well, don’t be too late. She needs her nap, or she’ll be impossible tonight.
I know how to take care of my daughter, Victoria, he said, more sharply than intended. After a strained goodbye, James hung up and returned his attention to Emma, who was now drawing what looked like three stick figures, a tall one with spiky hair, a small one with pigtails, and a medium-sized one with long yellow scribbles for hair. Who’s that, Em? he asked, pointing to the yellow-haired figure.
That’s the lady who looks like mommy, Emma said matter-of-factly. Can she come home with us? James stared at his daughter, speechless. In that moment, Sophia returned with their check.
I added an extra cookie for Emma, she said with a small smile. On the house. Thank you, James managed.
Then, making a split-second decision he’d later question repeatedly, Actually, Sophia, could we get your number? Maybe we could talk some time? About Eliza? As Sophia wrote her number on the back of the receipt, neither of them noticed Victoria entering the restaurant, her expression darkening as she spotted the three of them together. The living. Image of what her daughter’s family should have been.
The drive home from Bayside Bistro was oddly quiet. Emma, usually bubbling with questions and stories, dozed in her car seat, clutching the paper napkin with Sophia’s hastily scribbled phone number that James had absentmindedly handed her. In the rear-view mirror, he could see Victoria’s sedan following them, an uninvited shadow he wasn’t in the mood to deal with.