“I wanted to help more, but I didn’t know how.”

“You couldn’t have.”

“I’ve thought about you so many times since then. Especially lately. Wondering how you were, if knowing there were others gave you some kind of... Comfort isn’t the right word. I wondered if you were happy.”

They shared a long look, one that said they both knew the word “happy” was inadequate to sum up a life or even contain its brightest moments, that happiness couldn’t cover for pain, disappointment, dreams that had scarred over. The ache now when she thought of that garden she wanted to plant in the spring. Umma might not live to see it.

“I wasn’t happy for a long, long time,” Phoebe said.

“And now?” James asked.

“I have my moments.”

And she did. There had been many moments of unabashed joy. Making songpyeon with Umma for Thanksgiving. Dancing with Apa in the backyard at her wedding reception. Hiking Mount Diablo with Malcolm. Making love to him that first time, the rush of joy in discovering how deeply and certainly she desired him—that she could still experience desire—bringing her to tears. She’d learned to be grateful for all of her feelings, even this bittersweet moment with James.

“Do you want to head back?” James asked.

No, she thought. But down the hill, tapping their feet to Elvis Presley, were executives who could buy her film. Not just Ted, and the jury for the Persistence Fellowship, but VPs from Netflix and Amazon, scouts from Sundance, agents from CAA and WME looking to put packages together for their star clients. She’d come all this way, and she had work to do. It didn’t matter that her shoulders felt heavy, that she’d never get out from under the cloud Jerry cast over her. For twenty years, he’d been watching her. He could be still, even from jail. She breathed in, held it, let it out.

“Sure,” she said. “Let’s go.”

“That’s weird,” James said when they got back to the garage. “Holly’s car is gone.”

The big door was closed and they’d come in the side door so he could show her the pictures of his family. At the mention of Holly’s name, a wave of discomfort wriggled through Phoebe like an eel. This was Holly’s home, and Phoebe had been all over it, as if it were a museum. It was pure luck that she hadn’t seen the lady of the house herself. Phoebe hadn’t been hiding from her, but she felt sneaky and dishonest all the same.

“Sorry, let me just check my email. There’s probably an explanation.”

Phoebe followed James to his office and sat in the extra chair behind him while he unlocked his computer screen. Framed photos of his wife and children watched as he navigated to his email and scrolled.

“Huh,” he said.

“Nothing?” Phoebe asked.

“Nothing.”