When I see Mark, the only one of my employees whom I would say classifies as a book snob, come to relieve me, I am the very definition of relieved.

It’s time to go.

I can go.

I can get out of here.

As I gather my things and take a look at myself in the bathroom mirror, I regret, for a moment, that I’m not better friends with Tina. It would be nice to look at someone and say, “OK, how do I look?” And have them say, “You look great. It’s all gonna be fine.”

I consider calling Marie when I get to my car. She might be the perfect person to give me whatever sort of pep talk a person needs before they go meet their long-lost husband. But when I pick up my phone, I’m sidetracked by a text from Sam.

I love you.

It’s the sort of thing we text to each other every day, but seeing it now, it is both life-affirming and heartbreaking.

I stare out the windshield, stunned at what is happening to my quiet and stable life.

I have a husband and a fiancé.

I turn the ignition, start my car, and head out of the parking lot.

After years without him, the man I lost is coming home.

I pull into the airfield to see that the parking lot is empty. I check the time. I’m eighteen minutes early.

I fidget in the car, unsure how to contain all of the nervous energy in my body. And then my phone erupts with the sound of my ringtone and I see Olive’s face on my screen.

I answer.

“How are you doing?” she asks, even before saying hello.

“I don’t know,” I say.

“Is he home yet?”

“He will be soon. He’s supposed to land in fifteen minutes.”

“Jesus,” she says.

“Tell me about it.”

“What can I do?”

This is Olive’s go-to mode of function. What can I do? It’s a wonderful quality in a friend. It means that she is always the one that is clearing the plates when she’s staying at your house. She is always the one sending thoughtful gifts and checking in on you at opportune moments. But in a situation like this, she’s not in her element.

Because there is nothing for her to do.

There is nothing to be done.

All of this just . . . is.

“Can I at least send you flowers?” she says.

I smile. “I don’t think flowers are going to help me deal with the fact that I have a husband and a fiancé at the same time,” I tell her.

“What you’re describing is completely absurd,” she says. “Flowers help with everything.”

I laugh. “Thank you,” I say, “for managing to be funny right now.”

“And thank you for thinking that joking about intense things is appropriate,” Olive says. “Tracey does not agree.”

Tracey is Olive’s girlfriend. I have to say that their pairing makes absolutely no sense to me. Tracey is serious and erudite and corrects other people’s grammar. She’s regal, thin, and gorgeous. Whereas the best part of Olive, to me, has always been that she says whatever pops into her brain, eats whatever is in front of her, and will try anything you propose.

Sam easily explains it away by saying that opposites attract, but I’m still digging for some piece that I’m missing. Sam must say to me, “Do we really have to keep talking about Olive and Tracey?” at least once a month.

“Do you think he is OK?” Olive says. “I mean, I know he’s alive and they say he’s healthy enough, but do you think he’s going to show up and have gone mad? I mean, wouldn’t you? Three years alone? He was probably living off of coconuts and talking to volleyballs.”

“This isn’t helping,” I tell her. “This is the opposite of helping.”

“Sorry. I’ll shut up.”

“No,” I say. “Don’t shut up. Just stop talking about how my husband is probably mentally unstable. Talk about something else. I have time to kill until everyone gets here and I’m afraid if I have to kill it alone, I’ll be the one that’s mentally unstable.”

Olive laughs. “Like I said, you keep a good sense of humor in a crisis.”

“I wasn’t joking,” I tell her.

And then we both start laughing because that’s the funniest thing of all, isn’t it? How serious this is, how unfunny it is.

Just as I’m laughing my hardest, I see a white SUV pull into the parking lot and I know, even before seeing the driver, that it is Jesse’s parents.

“Ah,” I say to her. “I have to go. Francine and Joe are here.”

“Oh, my God,” Olive says. “This all sounds so uncomfortable.”

“A bit, yeah,” I say as I turn off the car.

“I mean, when was the last time you talked to them?”

“I basically haven’t since he disappeared,” I tell her. The three of us kept up the pretense of family for a few months, calling one another on holidays and birthdays. But that faded quickly. To be honest, I think it was too painful for all of us. For the past few years, we’ve lived in the same town and not seen each other except for the occasional run-in at the grocery store.

“All right, wish me luck dealing with this. I gotta go.”

Olive has a very bad habit that I never noticed until we moved away from each other and had to conduct our entire relationship over the phone. When you say you have to go, she says OK and then talks for another half hour.

“OK,” she says. “Good luck. I’m here for you. Is Sam okay? How’s he doing?”

“Sam is . . .” I don’t know how to finish the sentence and I don’t have time to. “I don’t know. I really have to go,” I say. “Thank you for calling. I don’t know how I would do this without you.”

“I’m here anytime, you know that,” Olive says. “If there is anything I can do, please let me know.”

“I will,” I say. “I promise. All right, I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Talk to you soon. Are you and Sam definitely going through with the wedding? I mean, at this point everything is up in the air, right?”

“Olive!” I say, losing my patience.

“Sorry,” she says, realizing what she’s doing. “I’m being such an Olive right now.”

I laugh. “You kind of are,” I say.

“OK, I’m going. I love you. I’m here for you. I won’t even ask how Sophie and Ava are because I know you don’t have time.”

“Great. Thank you. I love you. Good-bye.”

“Bye.”

When she hangs up the phone, I realize how alone I am. For a moment, I thought the problem was just that I needed to get Olive off the phone. Now, I remember what the real challenge is.

I get out of my car. Francine waves as she sees me.

I wave back and start walking over to them.

Francine is wearing a fitted burgundy dress with a navy peacoat. Her wavy dark brown hair just grazes her shoulders.

She hugs me, firmly and passionately, as if she’s missed me all these years. I pull away from her just as Joe puts his arms around me. He looks like he’s dressed for church. Gray slacks, light blue button-down, navy blue blazer. I notice that he has started losing his hair. His face has low valleys in places that used to be plains.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he says to me.

“Emma,” Francine says, putting a scarf around her neck. “It’s like a breath of fresh air to see you.”

“Thanks,” I say back to her. “You, too.” I don’t know what to call her. When I was a teenager, I called her “Mrs. Lerner.” When I was married to her son, I called her “Franny.”

“Look at your hair!” she says, moving her hand toward my short hair but not actually touching it. “It’s so different.”

I am stronger than when I knew them. I stand straighter. I am more patient. I hold fewer grudges. I am more thankful for what I have, less resentful for what I don’t. I am less restless. I read a lot more books. I play the piano. I’m engaged.

But, of course, she can’t see all that.

The only change she can see is my short, blond hair.

“It’s very gamine.”