Chapter Text
Chapter one
Miranda admired the ruby-like hue of the French Merlot as she swirled it in her glass. The soft glow of the green banker’s lamp cast just enough light for her to enjoy her late-night drink at her beloved desk. Tonight’s Book had been abhorrent—yet again, she had been forced to mark it up with red ink far more than she cared to. Under Nigel’s guidance, the mock-up for the upcoming Runway issue still lacked the excellence she had hoped for upon her return from Paris.
Paris… Andrea… Miranda let her head fall back against the chair, closing her eyes as memories surfaced, her lips twisting into a bittersweet smile. She did not regret a single second of it. If nothing else, she would cherish these moments until her dying day—treasured souvenirs to brighten the solitude she had long accepted as her fate.
Since returning to New York, she had stopped herself a thousand times from sending a text or an email. Did Andrea miss her as deeply? Did she still think of her? Miranda knew Andrea was far from frivolous, and that was precisely why she resisted the urge to reach out. She owed it to Andrea—to leave her to a future with someone better suited for her. Someone her own age. Someone without all of Miranda’s complications.
Her musings were interrupted by a soft ping. From the corner of her eye, she noticed a notification on the family computer. Her Bobbseys had received an email—they would read it in the morning when they returned from their impromptu pajama party at Alicia’s, their best friend since kindergarten. They were nothing if not loyal, her girls.
She took another sip of wine. I see Andrea’s name everywhere. How ridiculous! As if Andrea would write to my daughters. Still, the thought lingered. Who would be writing to her Bobbseys at this hour?
Glad for the distraction, Miranda put her reading glasses back on—a well-kept secret known only to a select few. She opened the mail app and gasped. Andrea had written to her girls. With a trembling hand, she moved the mouse and clicked the email open.
Munchkins, greetings from Singapore!
Of course, it was no bother to read your essays. You’ll find them attached with a few typos highlighted. I think both are very interesting and strong—I was truly impressed with your writing!
Caroline, be mindful of repetition in the third and fourth paragraphs. You use the same words several times—don’t hesitate to consult a thesaurus for alternatives!
Cassidy, I think your final section could be tightened a bit; it would make your argument even stronger.
Bravo to both of you! Your essays were a joy to read, and I even learned a few things.
I’m so glad you loved the macarons and the little gifts. Maybe next year, you can accompany your mother, and I’ll take you all to the best ice cream in Paris—just a short walk from Notre-Dame!
Hugs to both of you. Take care of yourselves… and your mom!
Andy
P.S.: Here’s the picture you requested. Don’t judge—I was jet-lagged.
Beneath the text, a close-up photo of Andrea filled the screen. Taken at night, the sparkling Singapore skyline stretched behind her. She smiled widely—likely at one of her parents behind the camera—but the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. Miranda exhaled slowly. Sadness. Or was she simply projecting her own heartache?
Almost unconsciously, her fingers lifted, hovering over the screen, as if to trace the contours of that beloved face. Realizing what she was doing, she recoiled sharply, pulling her hand back as though burned. Ridiculous. And yet… she saved the picture to a private folder.
Before shutting down the computer, Miranda scrolled up to read her daughters’ original email—the one Andrea had replied to.
“Dear Andy,
We hope you don’t mind us writing to you. We found your email on Mom’s phone.
First, thank you for the macarons and the little Eiffel Towers—we’ve put them on our desks. That was very kind of you!
Mom told us you’re a writer, so we were wondering if you could do us a favor. We have to write essays for our English Literature class, due Monday, on a topic of our choosing. Caro wrote about molecular gastronomy, and I (Cassie) wrote about hurricanes. Since Mom’s been super busy getting her magazine back in shape, would you mind looking over them and giving us some advice?
Mom says you’re very kind. She talks about you a lot. That’s how we know you’re in Singapore now—can you send us a picture of you there?
We have to run—party time! See you, Andy!
Cassie & Caro
P.S.: After Singapore, could you stop by New York? We’re sure Mom would love to see you! (And we would too!)”
Miranda groaned softly, pinching the bridge of her nose. Oh God. Her Bobbseys. The email was practically littered with Mom said… Mom told us… Mom talks about you a lot… Andrea was going to think she’d spent the past week sighing and pining like some tragic heroine. She straightened her spine. Which I am absolutely not doing.
Still, as she reached to turn off the computer, her gaze drifted—just for a moment—back to Andrea’s picture. Damn it. With a sigh, she shut down the lamp and climbed the stairs, praying for sleep that she knew would not come.