“Starfighter 2 wasn’t much better. There was one woman in the editing suite. And women in hair and makeup, obviously, but even craft services was all men. A guy named Joe DeLuca and his sons. They made great tri-tip.”

“Oh. Joe Jr. runs the business now. They catered my son’s birthday party last year.”

“Does Joe’s other son—what’s his name? Anthony?” Phoebe asked.

“Yes!”

“Does Anthony still shave his arms?”

“I heard he burned all the hair off on a shoot? And it never grew back?”

“He just likes everyone to think that. He’s a swimmer. Says he moves faster through the water when he’s hairless. Shaves his legs, too.”

“So that’s why Flynn shaved his legs last summer!” Holly said, laughing.

Phoebe was laughing, too. They could have been friends. Unless this was just what Holly did—charmed people, let herself be charmed.

“My son’s fourteen,” Holly said. “I thought he was trying to impress the girls.”

“Or maybe the boys.”

“Maybe! He’s going on a fishing trip with his friends. I’ll check their legs when I drop him off at the marina today. Oh God, am I late? I’m supposed to get him there by noon. I’m always running late.” Holly checked the time on her phone. “Nope, I’m okay.”

Holly really didn’t recognize her. How was this possible? Had Ted told his wife nothing about Phoebe? Burned all the photographs, erased her from his memory? Whatever the case, one thing Phoebe had learned now that she was almost fifty—there was no sense in being a martyr. If she was uncomfortable, then Holly should be, too.

“I’m not surprised your boy’s a swimmer with a dad like his,” Phoebe said.

“Why’s that?” Holly asked.

“Well, Ted’s practically part fish!”

A ripple of confusion passed across Holly’s face, and Phoebe’s ribs hummed with satisfaction. She was on the right track. She knew something about Ted that Holly didn’t.

“Or at least he was when I knew him. You couldn’t get him to take a day off, but if you got him anywhere near the water, he wouldn’t come out until he was wrinkled like a raisin.”

Holly leaned back in her seat. Her smile constricted.

Phoebe extended her hand. “I’m Phoebe.” She offered Holly a postcard.

The drumbeat was back. Boom. Boom. Boom.

Holly glanced at it—the young girl on horseback, A Film by Phoebe Lee—and folded it in half. She laughed, a quiet, private laugh meant to make others feel small. Phoebe knew she couldn’t acknowledge it; she had to seem unmoved, even bored. Phoebe set her purse down on the chair next to Holly. She pretended to fix the fall of her shirt. Then she picked up her purse again. She put her other hand in her pocket. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.