Page 65 of The Newcomer
If she turned her chair in just the right position, she could see a patch of the Gulf through the row of palm trees lining the Murmuring Surf’s swath of beach. The sky was the color of an orange Creamsicle, and tourists were perched in chairs at intervals along the sand, awaiting the nightly sunset ritual.
It was a ritual Letty could get used to, sitting in her private little paradise, with the smell of jasmine and gardenias and a tiny plot of velvety grass beneath her bare feet. Today, as the last of her clothes were folded and placed in the dresser, and her toothbrush and Maya’s were lined up on the bathroom sink, it occurred to Letty that she was finally in a good place.
Maya seemed happy. The meltdowns and night terrors were fewer and farther between, and the new routine—working alongside Letty in the mornings, then spending late afternoons with Isabelle—seemed to suit her.
Letty liked her job, liked the feeling that she had something to contribute to here. She’d grown fond of her employer, and of her daughter, and even the regulars seemed to grudgingly accept her presence at the Murmuring Surf. Maybe, she thought, she could relax here, let down her guard, live in the moment.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a familiar figure strolling down toward the beach, fishing rod in one hand, with a cast net looped over his shoulder and a bait bucket in the other hand.
There was no way Joe DeCurtis could see her here, through the tangle of greenery, but just in case, she slumped lower in her chair. He was dressed in a long-sleeved white T-shirt that clung to his muscled back, and baggy neon-orange board shorts. Joe planted the butt of the fishing rod in the sand, then waded out into the surf. He held one edge of the weighted net between his teeth, then folded a section of the net over his outstretched right arm. While she watched, fascinated, he grabbed the weight line with his right hand, reached back, and flung the net out in an elliptical arc. After fifteen seconds, he drew the net in, wriggling with hundreds of minnows flashing silver in the fading sunlight.
He made a handsome sight, silhouetted against the glittering turquoise water. A postcard:WELCOME TO FLORIDA.
She heard a ping coming from inside the apartment and got up to fetch her phone.
It was a text from Zoey.
Girl—I hope you’re okay. A lawyer came here today, looking to see if I knew where you’re at. I acted dumb and said I hadn’t heard from you, but don’t think she bought it. She says she’s your sister’s lawyer and needs to talk to you. Wouldn’t say what it’s about. Here’s her card. Take care, you hear?
The next text message contained a screenshot of a business card.
Samiya Chritesh, attorney-at-law. There was a phone number and an email address. Written in neat block letters on the bottom of the card was a note.
Ms. Carnahan. I represent your late sister’s estate. It’s urgent that I speak with you. Please call.
25
LETTY DIDN’T KNOW WHETHER TOlaugh or cry. Tanya had an estate? She didn’t recognize the lawyer’s name, but knew this Samiya woman was not the attorney who’d represented her sister in her custody battle with Evan.
She’d met that lawyer, a sharp-eyed older man recommended by one of Tanya’s Mommy-and-me friends, when she’d been deposed in the court fight.
Was this some kind of trick? Letty typed the name Samiya Chritesh into the computer’s search engine.
A moment later, she was reading the woman’s online biography. Graduated top of her class at Northwestern, NYU law school, sole practitioner at Samiya Chritesh LLC, specializing in trusts and estate planning.
Letty studied the photo accompanying the bio—of a thirty-something woman with smooth brown skin dressed in a sedate lawyer-lady blazer—and realized she’d met her before.
Could this be Sammi? Tanya’s yoga friend? That was how both sisters always categorized Tanya’s eclectic roster of friends and acquaintances. There was Vida, no last name, her modeling-agency friend; and Heather and Jenn and Portia and Liza, her ex-friends, because they were married to Evan’s friends; and Demetria, her nutritionist, whom she’d met through Portia, but who’d stayed loyal to Tanya because Demetria wasn’t married to any of Evan’s friends. And then there was Sammi.
Letty had steadfastly resisted Tanya’s pleas to accompany herto yoga class, because she didn’t want to become a clichéd yoga-practicing kombucha-drinking Manhattanite, but she’d once, in a moment of weakness, agreed to meet Tanya and a new friend for coffee after class.
At the time, she’d been instantly intimidated by Sammi, so sleek in her Lululemons, her glossy dark hair totally unmussed, even after an hour of what Tanya described as “excruciating” hot yoga. Letty hadn’t known that she was a lawyer.
Letty paced around the living area, debating the pros and cons. She went back out to the patio, watched the sun sink lower toward the horizon, watched Joe DeCurtis, patiently casting and recasting his line again and again. He was a man who didn’t give up, she concluded.
It was nearly dusk when she picked up her phone. First, she tapped *67, to hide her own number. Then she called the number on Samiya Chritesh’s business card. She’d expected the call to go directly to voice mail, had even practiced the message she’d leave, but was startled to hear a voice at the other end of the line.
“Hello. This is Samiya. Who’s calling please?”
Letty was momentarily stunned into silence. “Um, this is Letty Carnahan. Tanya’s sister.”
“Oh! Oh my goodness. Letty. I didn’t think you’d call.”
“I didn’t think so either,” Letty admitted. “My friend texted that you need to talk? What’s so urgent?”
“Where are you? Is Maya with you? Is she all right?”
“Maya’s fine. You don’t need to know where we are. Have you talked to Evan?”
