“So… who were you talking to just now?” he adds carelessly. “When you came out of the church.”
“What?” I say, a little thrown. “Nobody. Um, is the car nearby?”
“’Cause it sounded” he persists lightly, “as if you said ‘Sadie.’”
There’s a beat of silence while I try to arrange my features in exactly the right mystified expression.
“You thought I said Sadie?” I throw in a little laugh to show exactly what a bizarre idea this is. “Why would I say that?”
“That’s what I thought,” Ed says, still in the same conversational manner. “I thought to myself, Why would she say that?”
He’s not going to let this go. I can tell.
“Maybe it’s the British accent,” I say in sudden inspiration. “Maybe you heard me saying ‘sidecar.’ I need another ‘sidecar.’”
“Sidecar.” Ed stops walking and fixes me with a long, quizzical gaze. Somehow I force myself to look back with wide, innocent eyes. He can’t read my mind, I remind myself. He can’t read my mind.
“There’s something,” he says at last, shaking his head. “I don’t know what it is, but there’s something.”
I feel a fierce tug in my heart. Ed knows everything else about me, big and small. He has to know this too. After all, he was part of it.
“Yes.” I nod at last. “There’s something. And I’ll tell you about it. One day.”
Ed’s mouth twitches into a smile. He runs his eyes over my vintage dress, my swingy jet beads, my marcelled hair, and the feathers bobbing over my forehead, and his expression softens.
“Come on, twenties girl.” He takes hold of my hand with the firm, sure grasp I’ve got used to. “You did great by your aunt. Shame she didn’t see it.”
“Yes,” I agree. “It’s a shame.”
But as we walk away, I allow myself one more tiny glance up at the empty sky.
I hope she did.