Best Friends Forever. Margot Hunt
and began spitting out suitcases. I noticed Kat on the other side of the carousel, standing alone while she waited for her bag. I wondered why her husband hadn’t met her but shrugged it off. Maybe he was out of town, or she had a car waiting to pick her up. Either way, it really wasn’t any of my business.
I watched as Kat grabbed her suitcase off the conveyor belt, snapped the pull handle up and turned to stride off in what I was already recognizing as her signature walk—a little faster than necessary, as though it perplexed her that everyone else was moving so slowly. Then I saw something fall out of her shoulder bag. Kat didn’t notice it.
“Kat,” I called after her, but she didn’t hear me. I turned to Todd. “I’ll be right back.”
Before my husband could respond, I darted forward and around the conveyor belt before anyone saw the dropped item. It was a wallet, made of leather and stamped with the same Hermes brand as her handbag. It probably cost more money than Todd and I currently had in our checking account. I bent down to pick it up just as a man—white-haired, potbellied and grunting with the effort—was moving toward it.
“It’s my friend’s,” I explained. “She dropped it.”
The man gaped at me, but I was already turning away to hurry after Kat. I reached her just as she got to the sliding glass exit doors.
“Kat!” I said. “Wait! You dropped your wallet.”
Kat turned, her eyes wide with surprise. I held up the Hermes wallet.
“Oh, no!” Kat exclaimed, taking it from me and pressing it to her chest. “I can’t believe I did that! Can you imagine what a disaster it would have been if I lost my wallet? All of my cards are in here. And my license. I can’t believe I was that stupid. Thank you so much, Alice.”
“It’s no problem. I’m just glad I saw it before someone else grabbed it.”
“I am, too! I can’t thank you enough.”
I waved her apology away and smiled. “It was nice meeting you earlier,” I said, and just as I was about to turn away and head back to my waiting family, Kat rested a hand on my arm to stop me.
“Let me take you to lunch,” Kat said. “So I can properly show my appreciation.”
“You really don’t have to do that. It wasn’t a big deal at all.”
“It is to me. Besides, I liked talking with you, too. It would be fun to get together again.” When Kat smiled, the angles of her face softened, and she looked suddenly younger and prettier.
“Okay,” I said impulsively. “I’d love to.”
We made vague plans to have lunch the following week and exchanged phone numbers. Kat squeezed my arm. “I’m looking forward to it.”
Todd and the children had retrieved our suitcases and were waiting for me back at the luggage carousel.
“Who was that?” Todd asked.
“Just a woman I met while we were delayed at JFK,” I said. “We might get together for lunch or something.”
“Aw, look at you. You made a friend,” Todd teased me.
I gave him a whack on the arm. “Come on, let’s get home. We’re exhausted.”
Three Years Earlier
The K-Gallery was located on Highway A1A on the island of Palm Beach, not far from Worth Avenue. It occupied the ground floor of a five-story building that was painted peach with elaborate white cornices. I probably would have missed it if the GPS in my car hadn’t insisted that I had arrived at the correct address. The only signage was a simple brass plate next to the door.
Feeling a little nervous in a way that strangely reminded me of being the new kid at school on the first day of classes, I opened the large glass-paned door, setting off a chime as I entered. K-Gallery had white walls and a dark hardwood floor. It was spacious and airy. Small sculptures of twisted metal wire were displayed on white pedestals. A series of large abstract canvases hung on the walls, painted in moody blues and stormy grays. They reminded me of the finger paintings my children had made when they were little, although I thought I probably shouldn’t mention that to Kat.
“Alice!” Kat called, sweeping into the room. She gave me a quick hug, which I returned. “I’m so glad we were able to get together.”
“I am, too.” I had been surprised but pleased when she called me a week after our flight back to West Palm Beach and invited me to lunch.
Kat was wearing an immaculate sleeveless white shift dress and black heeled sandals. I was glad I had opted to dress up for our lunch, wearing a cotton sweater and skirt I’d bought on clearance at J.Crew, instead of my usual uniform that consisted of a T-shirt and yoga pants.
Kat noticed that I was admiring the wire sculptures. “Aren’t they exquisite? They were done by an artist in Miami who welds in a storage locker with no air-conditioning, if you can believe it. I think he’s going to be the next big thing.”
“The paintings are incredible, too.”
“You think?” Kat tipped her head to one side, regarding the closest one, which featured wild swirls of olive green paint. “They’re by an English artist named Crispin Murray. He’s quite successful, and they sell wonderfully. But I have to admit, his paintings always remind me of the ones my daughter brought home when she was in preschool.”
I laughed. “I actually thought the exact same thing but was afraid it would sound gauche if I admitted as much. Especially since I don’t know anything about modern art.”
“Not at all! I can’t stand it when people get pompous about art, as though there’s only one valid opinion. Art is supposed to elicit a reaction from you. Or at least, good art is. And your reaction is as valid as anyone else’s.” Kat waved a hand. “Enough with the art talk. Let’s go eat. I’m starving.”
* * *
Kat suggested we eat at Renato’s, an Italian bistro on Worth Avenue. It was a glorious day, cool and sunny, so we decided to walk to the restaurant.
Even though Palm Beach was only a short drive from Jupiter, I hadn’t spent much time on the tony island. As we strolled down the sidewalk, I was struck by how picturesque it was, from the neat rows of royal palms to the luxury stores housed in Mediterranean-style buildings to the Rolls-Royces and Aston Martins parked on the street. My earlier nerves dissipated, replaced by a frothy, bubbling sense of well-being. Here there were no dishes to wash, no homework assignments to check over, no piles of laundry to fold. Only a delicious lunch to look forward to and, possibly, a new friendship.
We decided to sit in the elegant outdoor courtyard, which was filled with round tables dressed in starched white linens and surrounded by flowering bougainvillea. Our waiter, who was young and handsome with a slight build, beamed at Kat as he handed her a menu.
“Welcome back, Mrs. Grant.” He spoke with a slight Italian accent. “It’s nice to see you again.”
“You know I can’t stay away,” Kat said, returning his smile. “I’m craving the risotto.”
The waiter rolled his eyes upward. “It is sublime, no? Shall I bring you the wine list?”
Kat looked at me and asked mischievously, “What do you think? Should we?”
I almost never drank wine at lunch, other than the occasional indulgence on vacation. But I was suddenly feeling festive.
“Why not?” I said.
Kat ordered a bottle of something white and imported, and the waiter swiftly returned with the bottle in hand. After he went through the presentation of uncorking it, offering Kat a taste and filling our glasses, he set the bottle in a silver bucket of ice. Kat