The bob-cut flight attendant returned with the bottle. “Your wine, Ms. Greyden,” she said as she placed a short-stemmed glass on the table and then expertly held the bottle between both her hands. Eileen watched as the woman filled the empty glass with the deep burgundy-colored wine, careful to wipe the mouth of the bottle with a white linen as she exited the pour.

“Thank you,” Eileen said, as the flight attendant finished and stood straight.

Eileen picked up her glass and took a drink. She was unaccustomed to having people wait on her, do things for her. It was unfortunate that this normally wonderful surprise of a circumstance was completely overshadowed by so many horrific realities battling for space and attention in her mind.

She considered sending a series of text messages to Rachel with cell phone snaps of the photos. We need to cancel our appointment next week. Also, you’re fired. She imagined the stunned surprise on Rachel’s face; it brought her the smallest sense of smug relief.

It wouldn’t last.

Her sister was dead.

Her husband was sleeping with Lauren.

She wanted to rage. To scream, howl, to hit something hard and repeatedly—like Eric’s face. She finished her glass of wine in one long swallow from behind the half privacy screen of her pod and stared out the oval window at the bright expanse of clear blue sky beyond.

Maybe their plane would crash.

The image of her three children immediately floated up, sobbing, standing at her funeral. Eric holding Lauren’s hand next to her grave. “I swear,” Lauren pledged. “I will be a good mother to—”

Don’t be stupid, Eileen. Of course you don’t want the plane to crash.

She leaned forward and pulled Clare’s book from her bag. She couldn’t even fathom having the ability to focus her attention long enough to read right now; she just wanted to sit with something her sister had created in her lap. Hold on to it. Stare at the blur of words filling page after page, words that had come from Clare’s mind.

They had grown apart, but Eileen loved her sister. She couldn’t imagine Clare really gone from the world.

It didn’t seem real, or possible.

Eileen ran her hand over the cover, feeling the raised gold letters, Clare Collins, A Perfect Life, beneath her palm. She opened the cover, felt the new spine release some stiffness, and flipped past the title page to the dedication.

For the love of my life.

Finally, our painful truth.

Eileen stared at those words. She read them several times, tried to shape them into an understanding that fit with Clare as Eileen knew her. She placed her hand over the dedication and stared out the window; two thoughts struck her.

Clare had always dedicated her books to her readers.

Clare would never call Simon the love of her life.