Twice in a Lifetime Page 3

  She should call the airline first, or perhaps the airport. Maybe whoever had her suitcase had handed it in and was sitting in the airport, nursing a beer, wondering when she was going to see her make-up bag again.

  Yes, she should call the airport.

  Or maybe there was something in the suitcase? Some clue to the mystery woman’s identity?

  Harriet dropped her phone, ran over to the suitcase and began piling the clothes on her beige carpet, finding the other white Nike underneath. The shoes were worn, showing that whoever this suitcase belonged to was into exercise.

  Harriet had a brief flash of guilt for not using the gym in her building more. She’d sworn she would when she moved in, but then, work had overtaken everything and she’d only made it a handful of times. When the gym overlooked the city from the 45th floor of her building, that was criminal.

  Underneath the clothes were some sketch pads, which she flicked through: whoever she was, this woman could draw. There was also a pack of colored pencils, and a journal. Aha! This could be what she’d been looking for. She flicked open the front cover, and sure enough, written in a pencil that clearly needed to be sharpened, was a name.

  Sally.

  And after that, a phone number.

  She exhaled, sitting down on the floor, journal in hand. It was one of those fancy ones with a hard cover and a Japanese-style design on the front. Harriet flicked to the back of the book, seeing that the last entry had only been written yesterday.

  And the owner was called Sally.

  A memory of her Sally flicked through her mind, sitting on the balcony of her family’s lake house, writing her journal — but that was all a very long time ago.

  Her eyes flicked over the handwriting, surprisingly neat and legible. The woman was talking about meeting up with someone called Ben and another person called Taylor. They’d met at a bar and hadn’t got as much done as they were meant to, but they’d got the ball rolling on the new project, and the woman had drawn a thumbs-up.

  What project were they working on?

  But then Harriet blushed, guilt spreading through her. She shouldn’t be prying into this woman’s life: she should be calling her and asking if they could meet to trade suitcases and sort this mishap out.

  She scrambled to her feet, picking up her phone from her light oak dining table.

  She grabbed the journal and dialed the number.

  Outside, she heard a siren wail down below; the only sound in her apartment was the hum of her AC and the boom of her heartbeat in her ears.

  “If this is you again, Taylor, calling from a friend’s phone, I don’t appreciate it,” said a silken voice in her ear. “I’ve already lost my bag today, I’d hate to add a friend to that list.”

  “It’s not Taylor,” Harriet said, flexing her shoulders and clearing her throat. “Is that Sally?”

  “It is.” Beat. “Who’s this?”

  “My name’s Harriet and I’m not sure if you’ve realized yet, but I think we switched suitcases at the airport.”

  “Wait, you’ve got my bag? It hasn’t been stolen or lost?”

  “No, I took it by mistake, and only realized that when I opened it up. I’m really sorry.”

  “Thank fuck,” Sally said. “I’ve just been on the phone with my friend wondering what the hell I’m going to do in Chicago for four days with no clothes or make-up. I hung around the airport, but they said all the bags had been picked up.”

  “So you don’t have my bag?”

  “No, the airport does. I didn’t take it, as I could see it wasn’t mine because it had a lock on it. Although I did have it in my hand to take, because it had an orange ribbon on it, like my suitcase.” She paused. “You didn’t happen to watch a show on the travel channel the other week which mentioned tying a ribbon around your suitcase handles so they were more recognizable, did you?”

  Harriet let out a scorched laugh. “I did. But I guess it doesn’t work if everyone does it, right?” She shook her head at her own stupidity. “Especially not if we all use the same color ribbon as on the show.”

  “Not so much,” Sally said. “So, how did you get this number?”

  Harriet felt a blush invade her cheeks. Even though she’d had to do it and she wasn’t sorry, she was still embarrassed to tell a complete stranger she’d gone through her stuff. Although, Harriet felt like she knew her a little already: she liked to exercise, to draw, to journal, to wear casual clothes.

  “I unpacked your suitcase to see if I could find out who it belonged to — I found your journal at the bottom and it had your name and number in it.” She winced. “Sorry, that sounds bad, but I wanted to return your suitcase to you.”

  “No problem,” Sally said, sounding a little less sure than she had been a few moments ago.

  “I didn’t read anything other than your name and number, I promise,” Harriet lied. “Anyway, getting it back to you. Where are you — in Chicago?”

  “I am,” Sally replied. “I’m here to see my aunt for the weekend, it’s a flying visit.”

  “You’re not a light packer, then,” Harriet replied.

  Sally laughed. “You sound like my friend Taylor, who was just admonishing me for packing so much, and then losing it.”

  “Where are you staying? I can drop it off on my way to work, it’s the least I can do.”

  “I’m at the Kimpton Gray Hotel in the Loop. Are you anywhere near there?” Sally said. “I’ve got dinner tonight with my dad, and it’d be good to have my stuff so I can look presentable.”

  “I’m sure it would,” Harriet said, looking over at Sally’s Nike sneakers on her carpet. At her journal on the table in front of her. At her clothes piled beside her suitcase. And feeling like there was something familiar about her voice.

  Sally. It couldn’t be her Sally, could it?

  No, that would be ridiculous.

  “I could get to you in an hour?”

  “Perfect — I appreciate it.”

  Harriet smiled, glad to be able to fix her mistake so soon. “Maybe you’ll let me buy you a coffee as an apology.”

  There was a beat of silence before Sally spoke. “A coffee sounds good. It was an early start from New York this morning, so it’s needed.” She yawned on the other end of the line. “Thanks for taking the time to track me down.”

  Harriet put her phone on the table, staring out at the lake. Her bay window covered almost the entire width of her living room and its floor-to-ceiling presence allowed her a 360-degree lake view, something her visitors always commented on. To her right she could make out some of the buildings from downtown, including Willis Tower and the John Hancock Center. And every night, the Navy Pier fireworks lit up the sky, and she often drank a cup of herbal tea as she looked out at them.

  She blew out a breath as she crossed the living room and began to repack Sally’s suitcase. She’d sounded upbeat and not too pissed with Harriet, which she was grateful for.

  Hadn’t Daniel just told her she should get out more and meet new people? Here she was, doing just that.

  She zipped up the suitcase and shook her head at the orange ribbon that had caused the confusion in the first place. Then she picked up her phone and searched for the airport’s baggage reclaim number, crossing her fingers they still had her suitcase. In all the excitement of chatting to Sally, she’d forgotten she still hadn’t found her luggage yet.

  She dialed the number and took a deep breath.

  Chapter Six

  What was her name again? Had she really said Harriet? Sally hadn’t met any other Harriets since the Harriet.

  The Harriet who’d changed everything and made her whole body sit up and take notice.

  If only she’d listened and followed that path to its logical conclusion, without marrying Todd and putting herself and him through all of that pain. If only she’d listened to what every inch of her was screaming when she walked down the aisle: that she preferred women to men.

  This Harriet had asked her to have coffe
e with her — a bit weird, and Sally hoped it wouldn’t be too awkward. Her voice had sounded soothing and assured, so that was a start. Plus, she had her suitcase, so maybe it was polite to do so.

  The elevator reached the lobby and Sally strolled down the impressive marbled hallway, and then across the main entrance hall, the whole space awash with candied sunshine from the front windows. She walked past the sharp, sleek reception desks and the hotel’s Japanese-inspired dark wood backdrop, with low-slung leather and metal chairs, stone-colored tables and high-gloss polished floors.

  She spotted her suitcase first, with a chestnut-haired woman sitting beside it, her shoulders slightly hunched, the sole of her silver Oxfords tapping on the floor. She was facing in the opposite direction, and as Sally approached, she could see the woman had her phone in her hand, the familiar Facebook screen being scrolled through.

  When Sally drew up behind her, she cleared her throat and put on her best smile. “Harriet?” she said, a weird feeling flowing through her body.

  Because all of a sudden, she knew who this was. Even before she turned around, Sally knew this was not just any Harriet, but her Harriet. She knew, because she’d never forget those hands, or the way she smelled. She was still wearing the same perfume 17 years later, and every time Sally had smelled it in the intervening years, she’d always thought of her. How could she not?

  Sally held out a hand as Harriet turned, staring back at her with those piercing green eyes. Eyes that Sally knew. A mouth she knew. A face that was so familiar, Sally felt like she’d traced it with her heart a million times.

  And now, here she was, the suitcase thief.

  “Harriet?” Sally repeated, taking Harriet’s hand in hers: it was warm, just like she remembered. And despite the intervening years, a shiver ran through her. She shook her head slightly, reminding herself she wasn’t 17 anymore.

  Only, around Harriet, she’d only ever been 17.

  “Harriet Locke?” Sally had to say her full name, just to be sure she wasn’t making this up on the spot. She glanced down at their intertwined fingers, neither of them letting go.

  Harriet nodded, an incredulous smile on her face. “Sally McCall?” she replied, her voice a whisper. “What the hell?”

  All around them, the hotel lobby buzzed with activity, but all Sally could see was Harriet. All Sally could feel was Harriet.

  It was like she’d been transported back to her 17-year-old self in the blink of an eye, rendering her speechless.

  Like nothing had changed at all.

  Only, it had.

  Sally was pleased to see Harriet looked just as freaked as she was, too.

  “What are you doing here?” Sally asked, her mouth dry, a throbbing in her head.

  Meeting Harriet again was giving her a headache.

  “I’m bringing back your suitcase.”

  Sally dropped Harriet’s hand before replying. She still couldn’t quite wrap her head around this situation. “I can see that,” she said. “But… it’s you. What are you doing here?”

  Harriet laughed, breaking the tension. “I live here.”

  “You do?”

  Harriet lived in Chicago. She’d always thought of Harriet living in New York or LA, not Chicago.

  “And you picked up my suitcase. What are the chances?”

  Harriet blinked rapidly. “A million to one?” she replied, sweeping her bangs off her face. “I thought you sounded familiar on the phone, but then I thought it was just me being stupid.”

  Harriet Locke was standing in front of her. Gone was the teenage attitude, the messy hair; this Harriet’s shoulder-length bronzed hair was streaked on one side, her smile undimmed. And she’d filled out, too, in a good way, her green pants and white shirt hugging her body in all the right places, her skin tanned against the bright white fabric. Harriet looked hip and beautiful, just like always.

  “It’s great to see you, Sally,” Harriet said, flashing Sally her smile, coupled with her dimple.

  Sally’s stomach flip-flopped, just like always.

  Harriet Locke.

  Damn, she looked good.

  “It’s great to see you, too,” Sally replied. But was it great to see her? She had no idea.

  The last time they’d seen each other she’d been in so much pain, she’d gone to ground for weeks after. She and Harriet had tried to carry on when Harriet had gone to college, but it hadn’t worked out.

  Okay, that was the understatement of the year. It had exploded spectacularly, splattering Sally’s heart all over town, leaving her a gibbering wreck. When they split up, the pain had been so real, Sally still recalled its texture and its taste: it was gnarly, gristled.

  She’d rehearsed this scene in her mind so many times: how she’d puff her chest out and tell Harriet just what she thought of her.

  But now, here she was, doing none of that, like none of it mattered.

  In a way, after 17 years, that was true.

  Then again, as Sally knew from her elevated heartbeat, it was a big fat lie.

  All of it mattered, so very much.

  “So what happened?” Sally asked, before realizing that question could be taken in a myriad of ways. “With the suitcase, I mean?”

  If she just stuck to talking about the suitcase, she could keep her thoughts clear, straight. Although, when it came to Harriet, her thoughts had never been all that straight.

  Harriet was staring up at her with those emerald eyes. Sally steadied her nerves, remembering those up close, staring into them, never wanting to let them go. But Harriet had forced her hand.

  “Well, I took it by mistake.” Harriet held up her hands in apology. “And it was totally my fault — blame my early start and the extended nap I took on the plane.”

  So many thoughts were racing through Sally’s head, but she put them to one side. “So you live in Chicago,” she said. “What were you doing in New York?”

  “Business meeting,” Harriet replied. “Flew in last night, it was a quick visit.”

  Sally nodded. Of course she had a business meeting. Business meetings and Harriet Locke were made for each other. She was probably some hotshot lawyer by now, Sally had no doubt.

  “What about you?” Harriet asked, her eyes searching Sally’s face, making Sally unsteady on her feet.

  “Me?”

  “Yes — what were you doing in New York?”

  “I live there, in Queens,” Sally replied. “I’m an artistic cliché.”

  Harriet’s face lit up at that. “You’ve done something with your crazy talent?”

  Sally smiled. Harriet thought she had crazy talent? “I’m trying. But my luck might be about to turn: it’s sort of why I’m here in Chicago.”

  Harriet furrowed her brow. “How so?”

  Sally shook her head: that was a story for another day. “I’ll tell you another time.”

  She paused. She was talking to Harriet Locke; this really was too surreal.

  Harriet checked her phone. “I’ve got to get to my office, but I’d love to grab a coffee with you, at least.”

  Sally assessed her. “Sure,” she replied. “You know, when you called, I wondered if going for a coffee with a stranger was going to be awkward.”

  “And what do you think now?”

  “I’m not sure what to think now,” Sally replied, shaking her head. “Harriet Locke.” Her stomach flip-flopped again, closely followed by a nudge of confusion.

  Harriet grinned. “Sally McCall.”

  Chapter Seven

  “So, what have you been up to for the past 17 years?” Harriet asked. Her voice was coming out clear, but inside, her heart was racing. Not that she was surprised: she was having coffee with Sally McCall, which was totally preposterous.

  They were sitting in the hotel’s ground-floor café on padded white seats, their earthenware mugs sitting atop solid wooden tables, their spoons brass and heavy. The café was full of people enjoying afternoon coffee and snacks, the air pregnant with the smell of melted cheese
and sweet baked goods.

  “Not much,” Sally replied, sipping her coffee before adding a little more milk. “The usual: went to college, met my husband, got married, got divorced, came out, that sort of thing.”

  Harriet’s stomach plunged. “You got married?”

  Sally nodded. “Got married, yes. Took part in being actively married? Not so much.” She paused, eyeing Harriet’s hands. “What about you? I don’t see a ring.”

  Harriet shook her head: there had never been anyone to call her own, not in the married sense. Not in most senses, if she was honest. “No, never done it,” she said, trying to come across as breezy as she could manage. “I mean, there have been people, but nobody I wanted to hang my hat on, you know?”

  Nobody since she’d fucked it up with Sally.

  Sally nodded, averting her gaze. “Sensible — that’s a tag I never would have slapped on you.”

  Harriet smiled. “It has been 17 years,” she replied, exhaling as if she’d just run a marathon. Which, in her mind, she had. “But can I just say, you don’t look 17 years older. You almost don’t look any different at all.”

  Sally spluttered. “I hope I do — do you remember the haircut I had back then?”

  Harriet smiled. All she remembered was that Sally was the most amazing person she’d ever met, and Harriet had steamrollered her heart. Did Sally still remember as much as she did? She was trying to gauge her reaction, but she couldn’t quite pinpoint it. She seemed pleased to see her, but also a little defensive? Harriet wouldn’t blame her if both were true.

  “I mean, your face hasn’t changed, your eyes haven’t changed, they’re still beautiful.” Then she stopped, the blood rushing to her cheeks. “And I’m going to shut up now before I embarrass myself even more.”

  Sally gave her a slow smile. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were flirting with me, Harriet Locke.”

  Harriet put a finger to her chest. “Me? Never. This is just a coffee to say sorry for switching suitcases.” She paused, getting the gift out of her bag, wrapped in purple tissue paper. “Oh, and this is for you, by way of apology. And now I know it’s you — not just any Sally — it makes it even more wildly appropriate.” But she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t also nervous about it.