Page 59 of Memories of the Lost

Jon’s messages were straightforward. At 4:07:Checking on you. Doing OK?

At 4:55:Checking again. LMK when you get this.

At 6:12, just now:Worried. Text me, or I’m coming over.

She typed:I’m fine. Just fell asleep. Liam here now. Will call tomorrow.

His reply was swift.Good. Have fun, baby, punctuated with an emoticon of a face with a tongue hanging out.

She laughed, carrying the phone to the couch, where she looked at the other notices. Nothing enormously important. Texts from a couple of acquaintances, headlines from news apps, an email from her gallery inquiring over her progress. Flicking open the app with her thumb, she started to respond that all was well when another one caught her eye. It was from Shiloh, the artist who painted the work that started all this madness.

Tillie Morrisey! I know your work, woman!! How amazing to hear from you. I’d be glad to help, but I’m not sure which painting you’re talking about. There are a few locales in that series. Which one did you mean?

I’m getting on an overnight train so won’t have much service until tomorrow (Vietnam time), but I’ll keep an eye out for your email.

Can’t get over it! I love your work!

XO

Susan Heever a.k.a. Shiloh

Tillie’s hands started shaking. She typed out a fast reply:

Susan! So pleased to meet you this way. Sorry about that—I should have said the number. Which now I’ve forgotten. It’s a porch against a forest, with two figures (maybe children) and a cat. A plant with big leaves. I can get the actual number, but that will be tomorrow.

Thank you so much.

Tillie

“What’s up?” Liam asked, returning. He sank beside her, body angled to give her his full attention. She loved the way he listened with his whole being.

“It’s the painter. She got back to me, but I forgot to include the number of the painting, like an idiot.”

He shook his head. “Don’t talk about my lover that way.”

She smiled. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me, too.”

The food was delivered, and they cooked beautiful omelets and avocado toast with hot chocolate. “It’s not sunflower bread,” Liam commented, “but pretty good.”

Tillie nodded in agreement, glad to be at home, to be eating ordinary food. “I love that bread. I used to make it all the time when Jon and I lived together. We were poor as hell, and the bread got us through a good many months.”

He smiled. “He’s a good friend to you.”

“The best.”

Quiet acoustic indie music played on the speakers, and as if to add the exact perfect note to the scene, rain pattered against the skylights. Sated, they pushed their plates away. Liam picked up a deck of tarot cards from the table. “Do you mind?”

She held out her hand, mock scowling. “Don’t get your energy all over my cards, man.”

“I thought you liked my energy all over you.”

“This deck was my mom’s,” she explained. The cards were as soft as an old pair of jeans, and she shuffled them easily, once, twice, again.

“Did you find what you were looking for in Fox Crossing today?” he asked.

“Not really. It would be easier if I knewwhatI was looking for, but all I know is that my mom was lying to me my entire life.”