“He didn’t stay in touch with us after the ten-year dinner, did he?”
Eliza shrugged. “Not really. We stayed in touch over the years, but other people don’t necessarily need to.”
“Or maybe want to? What about Lincoln?”
Eliza exhaled hard. “He’s changed. The Lincoln I remember was so excited about helping children in Africa, but he seemed to brush off that memory of it, didn’t he?”
“That watch screamed money.” Bree wriggled closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Do you know the other thing I noticed? No wedding band.”
“So?”
“But there was an indentation on his ring finger as if he’d been wearing one.”
Eliza studied her old friend. “Will you stop?”
Bree grinned. “Stop what?”
“You know what I’m talking about. We’ve all moved on since then. We had a thing in college, then I went off to start the rest of my life.”
The seat belt warning chimed again, extinguishing its warning light, and the cabin again became a hive of activity. A flight attendant leaned across Eliza, surfing a small jolt as she neatly placed cutlery in front of Bree. “I could get used to this.”
The flight attendant unfolded a napkin and swirled it across Bree’s lap. “Have you had a chance to look through the menu?”
Bree almost burst out of her seat belt. “I’ve all but memorized it. To think the girls are probably having grilled cheese. I stocked the freezer so they wouldn’t live off it until I got back, and we can’t afford for them to live at Jack’s Bar-B-Que.”
The flight attendant placed a stout wine glass on the tray with a sweet smile. “You have girls? How wonderful. Do you mind if I ask how old they are?”
Eliza settled back in her seat as the gushing conversation about Bree’s domestic bliss passed overhead. Was Eliza living in denial of biological clocks and a family who relied on her? When Bree talked about her girls, it was as if she was talking about her reason for living. Perhaps Eliza hadn’t found hers yet.
* * *
Eliza woke refreshed, as if emerging from a warm bath. She stretched in the cabin’s half-light and pressed the in-flight entertainment screen into action. Their plane hovered over a sea of black—the middle of the Pacific—but they still had seven hours to go. Australia was a long way away, but this was ridiculous. She’d woken from a good night’s sleep, only to find there was enough time for another one.
She settled into the comfort of business class at the start of the break she wanted—no, needed. Not one of those weeks away from work when her email and cell phone kept her on a long-distance tether to the office and problems other people should be handling. No, she needed the type of break where she could disappear for a while; where she could lose track of time and look at a calendar without the faintest idea of what day it was.
Bree breathed deep and soft next to her, getting her wish of uninterrupted sleep. Eliza’s eyes adjusted as the information cycled through her screen. Their altitude, their speed. The outside temperature of fifty degrees below zero should she want to step outside for some fresh air. Their tiny plane was stuck on a dead-straight line from Los Angeles to Sydney.
Was she on the wrong course?
Eliza flicked her tablet on and fired open the bookmarked websites she had pored over for a month. The website for Outback Tours sat on top of the rest—and the text that had burned into her soul flared again into view. Text overlaying a photograph of an indigenous man in a black shirt and khaki shorts.
Find yourself in the middle of nowhere.
Those first two words had chipped away at her with infuriating regularity since she’d first laid eyes on the photo. Find yourself. The words that had sparked this mini-crisis of self-evaluation.
Eliza had never thought of herself as lost. Since the internship, she had dragged herself up the corporate ladder and around blockages, managing nonperformers, and finding ways not to smash the glass ceiling but slip around it. Relying on herself—a lesson learned in the harsh furnace of business, which burned those around her who were unreliable.
Find.
She stared at the word on the screen. Eliza had spent a month focusing on that word, analyzing everything about herself to find why it annoyed her like a run in her stockings, but now the second word drew her in.
Yourself.
Had she focused on the wrong word? The word find had taunted her, poking at her growing discomfort. Maybe it wasn’t so much that she was lost but that she was no longer herself. The young woman desperate to change the world had become a passive participant in it, navigating her way through, pressing on but leaving it untouched.
The data of their flight cycled on her screen. Six hours fifty-seven minutes to go. Their tiny plane headed for a bend in the flight path, a change of direction. Eliza zoomed out on the screen. The bend led to another straight line. The plane clung to a predetermined path it couldn’t change.
Eliza closed her eyes. Maybe she could.
* * *
San Francisco shimmered through Lincoln Horne’s corner office window. Sweeping views of crystal blue from the Bay Bridge right across to Alcatraz—Angel Island—on a good day. The flags atop the buildings that housed the rest of his competitors in the Financial District fluttered in the shining haze of a lazy August morning. The colors were richer, sharper than normal.
The soft leather squeaked as Lincoln rose on the balls of his feet and smoothed his Brooks Brothers suit pants. A ten-year fight had delivered this stunning water view. It was enough, for the moment. On every drive up to his office, he felt like he’d reached the mountaintop. He nearly had. Two floors away from the summit of his career. In his thirties.
Twenty floors below, an army of employees scurried to work, ready to be told what to do and to think. A shining red-and-green cable car jerked its way through Nob Hill, picking up speed as it threaded its way between the narrow avenue of buildings that shepherded California Street down to the sparkling water.
Lincoln turned at the no-nonsense knock, and the door opened before he could offer an invitation. A silver-haired man in a Gucci suit burst through.
Lincoln hustled around his desk to greet his boss, knocking over an empty photo frame. “Mr. Davidson, come in.”
The old man enveloped Lincoln in a solid embrace, slapping his back. “We are looking forward to you joining us on the top floor. You’ve worked hard and you thoroughly deserve it.”
“Thank you, sir. I am definitely looking forward to becoming a partner.”
The conversation felt easy, like between old friends more than colleagues. Equals. Lincoln could get used to the perks of a chauffeured limousine and partners-only drinks at The Daily Grill on Geary Street.
Mr. Davidson gave Lincoln a final pat on his back, then headed for the door. He rested his hand on the door handle. “There is one more thing, Linc. You will be sharing an office on the top floor.”
Lincoln slumped back on the desk. Everyone had their own corner suite on the top floor. No one shared. What was the point of working like a dog if he had to share the limelight he was due?
Mr. Davidson sneered. “Get used to it. You’ll be splitting everything down the middle from now on.”
Lincoln woke to the crunchy tinkling of ice splashing across his tray. He reached for the letter and ran his thumb over the gold embossed lawyer’s logo at the top.