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November 14, 2030
Andrea Sachs, Ph.D., sat in the cramped, windowless storeroom Georgetown had generously offered her as an office during her stay and waited for the plagiarism software to finish with the latest round of practice articles she’d assigned to her morning class. Her afternoon class began in - she glanced at the corner of her monitor - twenty minutes but she wanted to drop a clean copy of the papers onto her tablet so she could start grading right after dinner.
She felt confident she’d weeded out the blatant plagiarists with the first paper of the semester, but sneakier ones were waiting for her to take her eyes off the ball. There always were this close to finals.
While she waited, she read about a scandal with a Manhattan criminal court judge that was buried so far back in the page count of today’s Times that she wondered why they hadn’t just put it in with the used car sales ads at the very end of the paper. She made a note of the judge’s name, planning to look it up later, and took another bite of the stale Pop Tart she’d gotten out of the vending machine downstairs.
The gentle chime of a text message coming in made her glance at her Glass. She’d been expecting another reminder about the package waiting for her at the FedEx self-serve and frowned when she saw an unexpected name.
|Need to talk if you have time.
“Andy, call Nigel,” she told her phone. She knew it was weird to name her digital assistant after herself but giving it an English accent and calling it ‘Emily’ had only been funny for about three days and she couldn’t think of anything else.
Nigel picked up right away.
“Hey, Six,” he said, and he sounded drained.
“Your name wasn’t on my Blast from the Past bingo card for today, Nigel,” she said, smiling in spite of his apparent exhaustion. “We haven’t talked for–”
“Andy, it’s Miranda,” said Nigel, interrupting, and the tone of his voice poured ice right down Andy’s spine. She sat up in her chair.
“What about Miranda?” she asked. “Nigel, you're scaring me.”
Nigel made a sound - a sort of gasp - then cleared his throat. “She’s gone, Six,” he said.
Andy’s blood in her ears drowned out everything else and her head swam. “What do you mean ‘She’s gone?’” she heard someone ask - someone whose voice she didn’t recognize - and for a second she thought it was strange someone else would be on the line with them until she realized she’d asked the question. She must have, but her voice was hoarse and haunted.
“The doctors are saying it was a stroke, or maybe an aneurysm - apparently they can be similar–”
Andy shook her head. “No, Nigel. That can’t be–” She almost laughed at the ridiculousness of the suggestion. “She’s seventy-two. She just turned seventy-two last month, Nigel. I saw the pictures of her at the gala! You’re wrong.” The tiny kernel of reason still functioning in Andy’s brain reminded her how long Nigel and Miranda had been friends. He wouldn’t lie about this, it told her. Not for any reason.
The disbelief inside her shattered and fell away, and she was back there all over again, back to the time when one word, one acknowledgment could send her soaring into the stratosphere or stab her right through the heart. “Please tell me you’re wrong, Nigel,” she whispered, trying desperately to glue the pieces of herself - the one who’d transformed all that chaos and longing and tension into a life, a real life - back together.
“I’m so sorry, Andy,” said Nigel, and Andy heard the tears in his voice. He knew what she’d walked away from all those years ago, probably better than anyone else did. “There’s going to be a thing - a couple of things, really - a service and–” Emotion overwhelmed him, robbing him of his voice. Andy began to cry, silent tears rolling down her cheeks.
“I’ll text you the information,” he said finally. “It would…” He stopped, then started again. “I would really like you to come.”
Even though Nigel couldn’t see her, Andy nodded. “I will,” she said and again it was a voice she didn’t recognize at all. “I’ll be there.”
—
Andy sat in the window seat of the first-class car of the bullet train from Washington, D.C. to NYC called the Hermes by its builders but lovingly referred to as The Carotid by almost everyone else. It was the major transportation artery between two of the most powerful and influential cities in the world, and many powerful and influential people used it to get back and forth between them. The two cars in front of hers were reserved for high-level members of the government or military. She’d always wanted to see what they looked like.
Not today. Today, she was just trying to hold on.
After hanging up with Nigel, she’d canceled her afternoon class and both her classes for the rest of the week. Then for almost twenty-four hours straight, she read every single piece on Miranda’s death that crossed her media stream. She thought if she could surround herself with the drama, if she could submerge herself in the shock of it, over and over, it might desensitize her to the pain.
It did, right up until one short article from a nobody outfit claimed the stroke had been brought on by a screaming match Miranda had allegedly had on the telephone with one of her daughters. The absurdity of that premise made Andy laugh in surprise and that laugh punched a hole right through all the walls she'd built. Grief poured through the opening.
I'm still crying four days later, she thought, clutching one of the Tom Ford handkerchiefs from a matched set that Miranda had regifted to her years ago as a thank-you for something she no longer remembered doing. The others were tucked into the pockets of her Milly vegan leather jacket. It was an older piece - maybe ten years old? - but the double-breasted closure and enamel buttons were timeless.
That was the one thing Andy couldn't break herself of after leaving Paris - her appreciation for well-designed, perfectly tailored clothing. A journalist’s salary (and now a professor's) restricted how much she could spend, of course, but she still managed to splurge once or twice a year.
Many of those splurges were packed in her suitcase, including a brand-new one. She’d called in a favor from one of the buyers she’d stayed in touch with and snagged a Givenchy blazer from last winter’s line. After all, it wouldn't do for her to show up at Miranda Priestly's memorial service in anything less than the best. If for no reason other than Emily Charlton would use it as an excuse to finally stab Andy in the back with a real knife.
Wiping her eyes again, Andy glanced at the open seat beside her, hoping it wasn't booked. She didn't want to explain to a complete stranger something she couldn't even explain to herself. It had been almost twenty-five years since she'd last seen Miranda in person, and yes, she'd spent the first five afterward trying to pull herself together. Mostly in her personal life. Her career, thanks to Miranda, had the solid foundation it needed to hum right along without too much extra effort on her part. Everything else? Yeah, not so much.
Nate had called her one afternoon at her desk at The Mirror after seeing a story of hers. He was drunk and bitter, said some things he later texted an apology for, and disappeared into the ether. Christian made a single overture for reconnection early on but his proximity to Miranda and her world was always going to be a problem. Wanting to be honest, Andy told him as much, and the self-righteous smile he’d aimed back at her would have been enough, but he had to have the last word, too. Of course.
“Seems no matter what I do, I can’t win against Miranda Priestly,” he said. Andy never heard from him again.
She dated the bartender at her favorite bar for six months, then dumped him for his hot older sister, an attorney halfway to partnership in some big family law firm in midtown. Fun and funny, Nicola was the star of every dinner party they threw, holding court at home just like she did at the office. She knew how to sell a story, but she also knew how to exploit a person’s weaknesses. Those qualities made her a fantastic attorney and a terrible partner. They ended badly two years in.
Andy’s partner in her longest relationship - Beth - was everything Andy thought she wanted. Kind, considerate, thoughtful, supportive, attentive. They ended things before their fourth anniversary and Andy liked to tell herself she had no idea why. Except she did, really. When she was being honest with herself, it wasn’t just that Beth was different from Miranda in nearly every way, it was that she was Miranda’s polar opposite. Her very existence implied the existence of Miranda - like two sides of the same coin - and poor Beth always came up short in the comparison. In the end, Andy didn’t want to keep fighting Miranda’s ghost just to be with someone, no matter how wonderful.
So, that was that. She gave up on love and focused all that extra energy on her career, quickly becoming the fourth female journalist to win two Pulitzer Prizes and the first to win three.
And the first to think that maybe that was the second worst mistake I ever made, she thought.
Just then, a woman in the aisle smiled at her, then frowned when she saw Andy’s tears. She took the seat next to Andy.
“I won’t ask if you’re all right,” she said softly, making sure no one else could hear her. “Clearly, you aren’t. But I will ask if there’s anything I can do to help.”
Andy shook her head and mopped her eyes again, taking the opportunity to look at the woman more closely. She had auburn hair styled in an old-fashioned way. It matched the skirt suit she wore. Impeccable but wildly out of date, by more than eighty years, if memory served. She had no belongings of any sort and looked like she could be between thirty and sixty years old. Everything about her was strange.
“No, there isn’t. Thank you, though.” Andy tried to give the woman a small smile and a classic brush-off, but neither worked.
“I’m Moira,” the woman said. “And I really do believe I may be able to help - if you’ll let me.”
“Can you turn back time?” snapped Andy, angered by the woman’s conceit and presumption. “Can you stop me from making the biggest mistake of my life twenty-five years ago so I’m not sitting on this train, crying for someone my heart thinks I lost, but really, the truth is I never had her in the first place?”
Moira didn’t answer Andy’s questions but instead considered her closely. “Someone has died,” she said. It was a statement, not a question. “Someone you walked away from a long time ago. In…Paris?”
Confusion and shock overtook Andy’s irritation. “How could you know that?” she asked.
“Am I right?”
Andy’s frown carved deep creases in her forehead. “Yes - Miranda - but how could you possibly know that?” Remembering that ridiculous article from that no-name outfit, suspicion shouldered past her outrage. “Wait - are you a journalist? Are you hoping I’ll spill my guts just to give you an angle no one else has? If so, go fuck yourself.”
Several heads turned their way at the harsh words and Andy blew her nose, in part to punctuate her irritation.
Moira was unfazed by Andy’s anger.
“I’m not a journalist,” she said. “I’m not much of anything, really. But I can help. I know I can.”
The woman’s certainty kindled an absurd spark of hope in Andy’s chest. “How?” she asked.
“First, tell me about this mistake you made - the one you say is your worst.” When Andy looked at her dubiously, Moira smiled. “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need to know.”
Still leery, Andy nevertheless told Moira about that day and what had led up to it. About how appalled she’d been by what Miranda had said. About how little she understood herself and the world at the time. About never telling Miranda how she felt about her, never giving them the chance to find out if they could be something more than what they were.
“She never knew,” said Andy, sighing harshly when she began to cry again. “Or maybe she suspected. But the thing is I never said anything, and now she’s dead.”
Moira laid a comforting hand on Andy’s knee. “How did she die?”
“In her sleep, I think. Nigel said something about a stroke or an aneurysm.”
Nodding absently, Moira seemed to look within herself for a moment. To Andy, it almost seemed like she was in consultation.
“If you could go back there to that day right now, would you choose to stay with her instead?” she asked.
“Yes.” Andy didn’t hesitate. “In a heartbeat.”
Something - something powerful - moved like a storm in Moira’s gray eyes. "Even if nothing changes on this day - even if Miranda still dies in her sleep this year on this date?"
"Would I know that if I went back?"
That confused Moira. "Did you know it then?"
Andy rolled her eyes before she could stop herself. "Obviously not."
"Then no,” said Moira. “You won't. You won't know any of this at all - won't have the insights you shared or the benefit of years of hindsight. And there are no guarantees that anything else will change. You may never tell Miranda anything. Or if you do, it may not turn out the way you hope it will.” She pulled her mouth into a grim line and looked within herself again. “You'll probably still end up on this train when today comes around again, though. Maybe. That's actually harder to predict."
Andy blinked, stunned. "You're speaking as if you believe this could happen - like really happen - and it can't. We're just speaking hypothetically." Right? There wasn’t any way this could be real, was there?
"And if we aren't?" came Moira’s affronted reply.
"But–" Andy returned to her basic journalism training and ended up with two urgent questions: How? and Why? She realized how would be complicated - that there was a good chance she wouldn’t understand much of the technical stuff - so she asked the other one instead.
"Why?"
"Why not?"
Fire flashed in Andy’s eyes. "That's not an answer."
"Well, technically–" Moira began.
Andy glared at her.
"Fine.” The woman looked both annoyed and petulant. “You won’t believe a word of this, of course, but that doesn’t matter, I guess, because you won’t remember it either. I’m…it doesn’t translate exactly but I’m a type of editor. If it helps, think of me as someone whose job is to update a textbook after new information comes to light.” Moira grumbled something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like a phrase Andy’s favorite crusty old Greek marketing manager at The Times used to mutter when the copy was particularly shitty. Roughly, it meant ‘stupid cunt.’ Andy suspected Moira was aiming that insult at herself.
“Look, I’m never going to get any better at explaining this,” said Moira, “so here goes. Sometimes the Weavers drop a stitch in their work but it’s not a big enough mistake to be seen immediately. Sometimes it isn’t noticed for a very long time and correcting it becomes…complicated.”
Andy - as even-keeled as ever - took all of that in stride. After all, there was no point in arguing with the woman. Either she was completely unhinged or she wasn’t. There was no in-between.
“So when these ‘dropped stitches’ become a problem years after they happen, the Weavers - I’m guessing I know them as the Fates - they send you to fix them.” And there, Andy’s willing suspension of disbelief hit a snag. “Somehow.”
“I unpick time,” Moira said, explaining. Then seeing the horror of that wash over Andy’s face, she quickly added, “It’s a choice, of course! I can’t force anyone to do anything, nor can I proceed without the assignee’s permission. Sometimes people decide to leave things as they are.” She shrugged. “Then we just have to - you know - go with it.”
Her tears all but forgotten, Andy grimaced. “And if I asked about - oh, I don’t know - multiverse theory, what would you say?”
The woman cringed. “I mean, it is a factor, but frankly, explaining how will take years, and there are no treatments in this timeline for the headache we’ll suffer in the attempt.”
“I suspected as much,” Andy deadpanned, rubbing her forehead. She could already feel a headache beginning. “And me walking away from Miranda in Paris back then - that’s one of these dropped stitches?”
Moira nodded. “You made a choice at that fountain that wasn’t in the plan. You can choose to rectif–”
“Yes,” said Andy. Again, there was no hesitation.
While Moira chased down a coherent response, Andy tried again. “I’m the assignee, right? I’m saying yes, I want to rectify the mistake. How do we do that? Do I have to sign something? Make a vow? Kiss a ring? What?”
Moira narrowed her eyes. Generally speaking, the little chats she had with affected Humans never went this smoothly. The amount of time she usually wasted just trying to convince the assignee she was telling the truth was mindboggling, and most required multiple visits. None of which they ever remembered.
Not this one, apparently.
“No, nothing like that,” she said slowly. “You just have to think of the moment you knew walking away was a mistake. The first moment, when the pit of your stomach curdled and you almost turned around, almost took it all back. Close your eyes.”
Andy squeezed them shut.
“Do you see it?”
Andy nodded. She’d second-guessed the moment so often, knew it so intimately, she could recreate it on demand.
“Good,” said Moira. “Hold the moment there - before you choose one or the other, to stay or to go. Think about how the world looked around you, how it smelled. The sounds you heard and how you felt. Make it as real as you can. What was the weather like? What time of day was it? Had you eaten anything? Pour as much detail as you can into it until it feels like the memory will explode like an over-filled balloon.”
Starting with the sound of the car door slamming, Andy built the memory piece by piece until she could smell the rain in the air and hear the distant pop of camera flashes behind her, the reporters clamoring for comments - for anything - from Miranda.
It was so real, so immediate, she felt the paving stones beneath her heels and heard the water in the fountain at Place de la Concorde.
“What now?” she asked.
“Pardon?”
Andy opened her eyes and a wave of dizziness overtook her. The man who’d answered her muttered a curse word under his breath and reached out to steady her while somehow also keeping his raincoat draped suavely over his arm. She held onto him with an iron grip.
Then her mobile began to ring in her hand.
“Merci,” she told the man and smiled at him to let him know she was okay. He shook his head at her before continuing on his way.
Andy leaned heavily against the base of the fountain and answered Miranda’s call.
“I’m here–” she began, only to be cut off. “No, I just - I needed some air. I was feeling dizzy. I’ll be right in. I’m by the fountain in the square.” She started for the stairs still swarming with the press. “I’m heading inside now.”
—
November 17, 2030
Andy almost let the call go to voice mail.
She wanted to record her impressions of the summit before they faded altogether. So much had happened - a lot of it not remotely related to climate change - and she didn’t want to forget anything, but a glance at the screen told her it was Miranda calling.
“Shit!” cursed Andy, seeing the time. She’d promised to call Miranda before ten. “I know, I know!” she began, answering the phone. “I’m late again. I was trying to get–” Andy launched herself out of the desk chair and walked three feet to the smallest bed she thought she’d ever seen in a hotel outside of Japan. “No, you’re right,” she continued contritely, collapsing dramatically onto the rumpled bedclothes. “I promised and I blew it. I’m sorry, Miranda. Please forgive me.”
“Hello to you, too, Andrea,” drawled Miranda. Andy knew Miranda was trying to sound disapproving but she could hear the crooked smile Miranda couldn’t stop. It actually changed how she said the words.
“Ugh!” Andy slammed her free hand onto the bed. “Hi, Miranda. God, I can’t get anything right tonight, can I?” She closed her eyes and tried to let everything else go. “I suck.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Miranda, scoffing. “I knew exactly what had happened when you hadn’t called by five after. I gave you a full thirty in the hopes that whatever had delayed you could be finished quickly.”
Pouting, Andy picked at the bland beige comforter. “Look at you, being all rational and generous and understanding while I spent those thirty minutes rambling on about Eleni Kounalakis’ epic takedown of Eric Trump during a live broadcast.” She snorted. “I can’t decide what was hotter - that or the dress she wore to dinner. She’s such a babe!”
Miranda tsked at Andy. “How can you be a world-renowned award-winning journalist and have the vocabulary of an uncultured teenager, Andrea? I’ll never understand.”
Andy giggled. “Something something formative years mumble mumble arrested development?” She didn’t have to see Miranda’s eye roll to know there’d been one.
“How kind of you to prove my point,” grumbled Miranda. “And may I remind you that ‘babe,’ as you called her, will likely be the first woman to be elected president for a second term? I’m sure she’d be thrilled to hear how ‘hot’ you think she is. Will you mention it in the headline or will you restrict the description to the first eight inches of the article?”
“Oh, yeah, because Lu would love that, wouldn’t she?” said Andy, laughing from her belly at the thought of how her editor might react. “‘President ‘Hot Babe’ Kounalakis Evicerates Ugly Trump Spare on Live TV’ will go over just great.” When her laughter faded, Andy smiled into the phone. “How was your day, love?”
“Unremarkable compared to yours, it seems,” replied Miranda. “Though Caroline called. It appears the in-vitro worked. Natalie has reached her fifteenth week. They are officially pregnant again.”
Andy bolted upright and squealed. “Really? That’s fantastic! They must be thrilled. I’ll have to text her when I get off the phone with you–no, wait. What time is it in Shetland? Oh god, it’s like four in the morning there. I’ll wait until a decent hour - if there is such a thing anymore. How did Declan take the news? Poor kid just started kindergarten and now a new brother or sister? That’s a lot.”
Miranda chuckled. “More than you know. He might get one of each.”
“TWINS?” shouted Andy, then grimaced, remembering she was in a packed hotel with thin walls. She was relieved when she heard only muffled laughter next door. Probably another journalist with hideous deadlines and demanding editors.
“It would appear so,” replied her wife of 21 years. “ And Caroline knows that means she now owes you and Cassidy fifty dollars each. She will send it via…Venmo I think she said.” Miranda sighed. “Andrea, may I have you explain to me why there was a wager on this pregnancy? I don’t mind the occasional roulette wheel or a decent Black Jack table, but gambling on the existence of our grandchildren? Honestly.”
“Relax, honey,” said Andy. “It was just a little harmless fun. Though, I wonder…”
“You wonder what?”
“Who’ll win the birthdate pool? There’s a lot of money riding on that one!” Andy laughed when Miranda protested vehemently.
“You’re teasing,” Miranda accused. “I should have known.”
“Yes, you should have. But I’ll let that slide if you agree to a different kind of teasing when I get home.” Andy waggled her eyebrows suggestively even though her wife couldn’t see her. “But I should really get back to the article. I want to send a draft to Louanne before one. If she’s up and approves it, I won’t have to cover the research panel.”
"You work too hard." Miranda’s tone wasn’t quite disapproving.
"Ha!” laughed Andy. “I guess that makes me the kettle in this analogy."
Miranda was not amused. "Hmm."
"I'm teasing, Mir,” said Andy, trying to unruffle some feathers. “You taught me to expect excellence. I'm just following the path you showed me."
Sniff.
Andy pouted. "I'll be home tomorrow night..."
"I know. I'm being silly. I'm sorry, Andrea. It's just..."
"Just what?"
"I miss you. That's all."
Putting her thoughts of work aside, Andy settled against the headboard and told Miranda she missed her, too. They talked for a few more minutes, Andy weaving more teasing through the descriptions of her rather mundane day.
"This reminds me of our first Fashion Week together, remember?” she said, grinning into the phone. “You rushing back to your suite every night to call me - me still at The Mirror, ducking into stairwells or conference rooms to talk dirty to you. Those were the days, weren't they?"
"That was our second Fashion Week together, not our first," corrected Miranda.
Andy scoffed. "Oh, I never count the one when I was still working for you, Mir."
"Why ever not?"
"Because I almost made the biggest mistake of my life on that trip. Don't you remember?"
"What? Almost throwing your phone in that fountain? Please."
Andy sat up and shook her head. "No. No, Miranda. I almost left. I almost walked away from everything that day. I almost walked away from you. And that–” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “That would have been the biggest mistake of my whole life. Just thinking about it makes me feel sick."
"Well, you didn't,” Miranda reminded her. “And I'm all the luckier for it."
"Oh no. I thought we'd settled this! I'm the lucky one..."
They talked for a few more minutes, exchanged their goodbyes and love yous, then hung up. Andy immediately dialed another number.
“Hey, Lu, how mad would you be if I don’t cover the research panel tomorrow?” she asked when the call connected. She was going to be home before lunch tomorrow if it killed her.
—
Andy settled into her first-class window seat on the bullet train from Washington, D.C. to NYC. Its builders named it the Tyche but almost everyone else lovingly referred to it as The Carotid. It was the major transportation artery between two of the most powerful and influential cities in the world, and many powerful and influential people used it to get back and forth between them. The two cars in front of hers were reserved for high-level members of the government or military. She’d always wanted to see what they looked like.
Exhausted but excited to see Miranda’s face when she surprised her at lunchtime, she checked her text messages again, hoping Louanne had seen the article by now. Andy smiled when all she got was two thumbs-up emojis.
She dropped her Glass into its pocket in her media bag then slid it under the seat. She thought she’d take a nap. Thirty minutes later, she resigned herself to being awake and reached for her phone, thinking she would catch up on some reading the rest of the way home.
As she keyed it opened, a woman sat in the empty seat next to her and - astonishingly - took her hand. Andy looked up sharply but stopped in mid-protest. The woman had auburn hair styled in an old-fashioned way. It matched the skirt suit she wore, impeccable but wildly out of date. By more than eighty years, Andy thought. The woman had no belongings of any sort and looked like she could be between thirty and sixty years old. She was altogether strange but familiar at the same time.
Looking at her made Andy feel dizzy.
"I'm sorry," said the woman, and the expression on her face was one of deep sadness.
"For what?" Andy’s heart pounded and dread washed over her.
The woman squeezed her hand so tightly it hurt. "Right day, right train,” she said. “Different ending."
Before Andy could respond, the sound of an explosion somewhere in front of them upended the world, and all she could hear after that was the sound of screeching brakes and shearing metal.
—
The doorbell at the townhouse rang as Miranda was finishing her lunch in the den. She had her television on with the sound down and was reading the newest issue of Runway for the third time, noting the things she liked about it and the things she would have done differently if she was still at the reins. She didn’t notice the breaking news banner until she glanced up and she reached for the remote, intending to turn the sound up to see what on Earth was happening. Just then, Sarah, their housekeeper, hurried into the room.
“Ma’am,” she said, voice trembling, eyes filled with tears. She was as white as a sheet. “It’s the police. Please come quickly.”
—
The officers stood awkwardly in the kitchen, holding their caps in white-knuckled grips, faces serious and sorrowful. Quietly, they told her about the bomb on the bullet train, and that the target was a politician traveling in the same car. They told her how many cars had been affected and about the extensive damage to the first five - the two government cars and the three first-class ones.
It took Miranda a few minutes to understand they were asking her if she’d heard from Andrea this morning, whether she could confirm her wife had been on the train. They explained that Andrea’s name was on the electronic manifest and that CCTV at the security checkpoint showed her entering the platform. They believed her to be in car three, the first car of first class.
“She was supposed to be coming home late tonight,” Miranda said, certain they were wrong. She tried Andrea’s phone while they talked and it went to voice mail three times before she gave up. “She was covering the climate-change summit for The Times. There was another panel this afternoon - about research.”
Miranda sat heavily on one of the stools next to the kitchen island and the woman officer suggested Sarah get her a glass of water.
“Is there anyone else she would have told about a change of plans?” asked the other officer.
Mind blank with shock, it took Miranda far too long to think of Andrea’s editor’s name. “Lu,” she said, then started over. “Louanne Falberg, her editor. Should I call her?”
The officers said it might be a good idea and Miranda’s worst fears were confirmed the moment Louanne answered her phone. The officers could hear the woman’s sobs from across the room.
When Miranda hung up, she tried to ask questions but was unable to fathom what information she might need. The woman officer - Hanson, was it? - shook her head.
“We’ll get all that information to you when we can, Mrs. Priestly,” she said softly. “Right now, can we call anyone for you? Is there anyone you would like to have here with you?”
"No,” she said. “I'll call the girls. It should come from me. I just need a moment."
Hanson gave her a card and told her to call if she needed anything. Sarah showed them to the door.
Only when alone did Miranda allow her tears to come and with them, the memory of her call with Andrea the night before. She thought how lucky she was to have that and all the years before it. To hear Andrea speak of it, that first Fashion Week together might have been their last. So many things may never have happened…
That night they’d worked obscenely late putting out some fire or other, when Miranda found Andrea asleep at her desk and quietly suggested she should go home, only for the girl to sleepily reply “Sure, honey. Sleep tight.”
That time she’d come home from Rome to find Andrea with the girls instead of Diane, their nanny, who’d had a family emergency requiring an urgent trip out of state. It was a rainy Sunday afternoon and Miranda found them all napping on the couch in the den with various books propped open around them. The thing that shocked Miranda the most was how both girls were snuggled against Andrea as if they’d known her all their lives. Apparently, they’d made a friend.
The Christmas Andrea let herself in the door downstairs to drop off several last-minute gifts Miranda had ordered for the girls, only to bound up the stairs ready for battle when she heard the girls crying and Miranda shouting at someone. The someone had turned out to be the girls’ father, drunk and belligerent, on the phone. Bemused by Andrea’s protectiveness, Miranda said something dismissive that hurt Andrea’s feelings, causing her to run. Hurrying after her, Miranda, exasperated, asked why Andrea cared so much about what her ex did or said, only to have Andrea hiss back, “Because I love you and it matters to me how he treats you - all of you!” before she bolted out the door.
That was the night everything changed, bringing Andrea Sachs into her life and the lives of her children in a way she could never have expected and would never have known to wish for.
Miranda tried to imagine what their lives would have been like if Andrea had walked away from her that day in Paris all those years ago and shuddered with the bleakness of it.
She pressed a name in her phone, then closed her eyes, voice thick with tears when her daughter picked up.
“Cassidy, darling, where are you?” she asked. “I need you.”
fin