Oakley turned halfway in her seat and looked again.
This time she finally caught the woman's face. She couldn't say whether it matched the dream-version, but she could say this: round, luminous eyes; an upturned nose; pupils bright as water under sun. Beautiful, truly. A palm-sized oval face, fine features trimmed with gentleness—an elegance that looked unforced. About Grace's age, Oakley guessed. Old classmates, most likely.
From the scraps of talk she'd overheard, that much seemed clear. And the moment she made that connection, Ellisa Cheney's words returned like a pebble tossed against glass. Could this be the famous white moon?
Even the shoes—red, same as the dream—felt like a nudge from the universe, as if fate were waggling its eyebrows at her.
Then she shook herself. What was she doing?
Twenty minutes later, their conversation wound down. Grace and the woman stood and headed out. Thankfully, their path didn't cut past Oakley's table.
Oakley watched them go and took a sip of coffee gone slightly cool.
Outside the café, Grace saw Pauline Chan into her car and lifted a hand in farewell.
It was odd and neat, the way lives stitched themselves: Pauline was not only a client but also a former classmate. Back then they'd never spoken; now their circles overlapped. The world had its quiet tricks.
Grace turned toward her own car—and lifted her face into the sight of Oakley, who had just stepped out.
Oakley hadn't expected Grace to still be here. For a second, the two of them stood, a small distance between them, air humming.
"You're here too?" Grace broke the ice first, easy as ever.
"I am." Oakley's index finger wound itself around the end of her hair. "What are the chances."
Grace glanced through the café windows at the near-empty tables. "Finished your coffee? If not, I'll keep you company. If yes, we can head home."
"I'm done," Oakley said, pressing her lips together, then letting out a breath. "Are you—done for the day? If you are, let's go."
"All done," Grace said. "Clocking out early."
Oakley nodded. "Mm."
A few minutes later they were in the car. Grace eased them from the slot and into the street. The scenery slipped backward along the glass.
"What do you want for dinner?" Grace asked.
It struck her again how living with Oakley had re-tuned her attention to small, domestic questions. Food had once been fuel, nothing more. Now, most days, she wanted to plan around eating with Oakley. When Oakley wasn't around, it slid back to function. When she was, it felt like a scene.
But Oakley didn't answer right away. She blinked, as if surfacing.
"I'm thinking… marinated-and-roasted steak tonight," she said at last.
"You'll cook?" Grace turned her head, just a fraction.
Oakley nodded. She'd scrolled past a recipe ages ago, wanted to try it, kept not trying. Today felt like the day.
"Looking forward to it," Grace said, hands steady on the wheel.
The road unwound. Oakley's questions wound up.
After a long, quiet minute, she tried: "She was… very pretty."
"Mmm," Grace conceded. "Not bad."
"You two knew each other from before?"
Grace nodded. "A long time ago."
"I see." Oakley bit the inside of her cheek, then asked what she could ask. "So why meet today?"
"She's a client. It just lined up," Grace said.
"Oh." The small sound escaped before Oakley could temper it. "A client."
She breathed out—as if her lungs had been holding something they didn't name and could finally let go. The ease was obvious enough to be obvious.
Grace's mouth tipped. "And if she weren't a client—no meeting allowed?"
Oakley's face heated. She cut her eyes toward Grace and gave her a look. "I never said that. Do I strike you as a tyrant? Please."
Grace's smile stayed, quiet, and she looked back at the road.
They pulled into the garage not long after.
Inside, Grace lifted the tablet slightly. "I need to handle one thing in the study."
"Okay." Oakley pointed toward the kitchen. "I'll start the marinade."
"Thanks." Grace took a few steps, paused, turned back. "One more thing—an assistant of mine will stop by to pick up a file. When she gets here, can you let her in?"
"Got it." Oakley raised a hand in a little salute.
Grace's steps lightened as she took the stairs. Oakley leaned into the wall for a second, watching her go, then set the glass down, tied on an apron and gloves, and pulled the thawed beef from the fridge.
As she worked, Ellisa's message re-coated her thoughts. If the woman in the café wasn't the white moon, then who?
The dream still tugged. And beneath it, a quieter question: what was she afraid of?
Was it the possibility of a past love returning to pry at their marriage? Or was it simply the existence of a never-mentioned first love that made her chest knot up? She couldn't tell. She only knew her ribs felt too tight.
Ask Sabrina Myers? No—she didn't have her contact. And even if she did, what would she say? Hello, nice to meet you, do you happen to know if Grace has a white moon besides Jessica Brooks? Madness.
She'd just finished the marinade and was moving to slice ginger and scallions when the doorbell rang.
She stripped off her gloves and jogged to the entry.
On the stoop stood a young woman with a wide-open, honest face. She lifted a hand in a shy wave. "Hi! I'm from Ms. Barron's office. Here to pick up a file."
"Sure." Oakley nodded. "She's upstairs—go on in."
"Thanks…" The woman hesitated, then paused and looked back, curious. "Um—sorry—who are you?"
Oakley smiled. "Housekeeper."
"Oh." Relief loosened the girl's shoulders. "Then you see Ms. Barron a lot, right? Like… up close?"
"Mm." Oakley nodded gravely.
The girl—Leah Ray—sidled closer, conspiratorial. "So… is Ms. Barron in a good mood today? Not stormy?"
"She seems fine." Oakley tilted her head. "Why?"
Leah exhaled. "Good, good. I lost a file she gave me. She has a backup, but still—terrifying."
She clasped her hands as if she'd been chanting prayers the whole ride over.
Oakley couldn't help a small laugh. "How scary is she at work?"
Leah scratched her head. "Normally? Friendly. You can talk about anything. But when there's a problem—she's… formidable. But wait—you're asking this—so she's not scary at home?"
"Not at all." Oakley shook her head. "She's… very gentle."
She still hadn't met that other Grace—the one people whispered about in offices and corridors.
Leah narrowed her eyes, tapping her chin. "Then the rumors must be true."
"What rumors?"
Leah glanced up the stairs, then leaned in to Oakley's ear. "I've heard bits about the real Ms. Barron. That in private life she can be really warm. Back in college, she was apparently very good to a girl at school."
Oakley's eyes flew wide.
This—this was exactly what Ellisa had hinted at. So the white moon existed after all.
Leah kept talking. "There was a girl who spoke too bluntly, always rubbed people wrong. Lots of students disliked her. But Ms. Barron kept an eye on her from a distance."
"One time, Ms. Barron overheard some thugs making gross jokes about the girl—saying they'd get their hands on her sooner or later—and she just… stepped in and beat the daylights out of them."
"Wait—what?" Oakley's eyes grew even wider.
The scene—why did it feel—
Memories surfaced. In high school there had been a filthy man who lurked near the gate, throwing verbal filth at her whenever she passed. He'd never touched her; he denied everything; the school could do nothing. She'd been furious and helpless.
Then, just as she was about to ask her parents for bodyguards, the man vanished from her world. Coincidence, she had told herself. The planet was full of coincidences. And yet—
Leah wasn't finished. "And at that girl's birthday party—something went wrong. Her friends bailed, left her celebrating alone. She sat in a hallway corner and cried and cried. Ms. Barron arranged to have a little cake delivered to her."
Oakley's breath caught.
She would never forget that night. Dressed up and bright, ready to go out, only to be abandoned. Angry all day, stranded in a moment when everyone else had turned their back. The crying felt like a crack she couldn't tape shut.
And then—right when she had decided to wash her face and surrender to sleep—a stranger sent a small cake.
She had never known who. She had kept it like a pebble in her pocket ever since.
Could it be that Ellisa's mysterious girl—Grace's long, quiet "concern"—had been… her?
To be sure, Oakley asked, voice low: "Do you know the girl's name?"
Leah wrinkled her brow. "Jiang? Or Jang? Or… Jang with a soft G…?"
Oakley stood there, biting her lip.
A clear voice floated down the stairs, cool and unmistakable. "Her name is Oakley Ponciano."
Oakley startled and turned.
Grace stood on the last step, tall and composed, eyes set deep as a lake and fixed on her. There was laughter tucked into them, a steadiness that made Oakley's spine lengthen all on its own.