Chapter 3
Ididn’t bother changing my clothes or
brushing my hair, preparations I would most certainly have made in
New York. Instead, I threw on a sweater, jammed my feet into a pair
of army green rubber boots that Bee kept in the mudroom, and made
my way outside.
There is something oddly therapeutic about trudging
through marshy sand, the feeling of squishiness below the feet
signaling to the brain that it’s OK to just let go for a while. And
that’s what I did that morning. I didn’t scold myself, either, when
my mind turned to Joel and a thousand little random memories from
the past. I crushed a hollowed-out crab shell with my boot,
crunching it into a thousand pieces.
I picked up a rock and threw it into the water as
far and as hard as I could. Dammit. Why did our story have to
end like this? Then I picked up another, and another, throwing
them violently into the sound, until I slumped over on a nearby
piece of driftwood. How could he? How could I? In
spite of everything, there was a small part of me that wanted him
back, and I hated myself for it.
“You’re never going to skip a rock with a throw
like that.”
I jumped at the sound of a man’s voice. It was
Henry, walking slowly toward me.
“Oh, hi,” I said self-consciously. Had he been
watching my tantrum ? And for how long? “I was just . . .”
“Skipping rocks,” he said, nodding. “But your
technique, sweetheart—it’s all wrong.”
He bent down and picked up a smooth
sand-dollar-thin rock and held it up to the light, scrutinizing
every angle. “Yes,” he finally said. “This one will do.” He turned
to me. “Now, hold the rock like this, and then let your arm flow
through like butter as you release it.”
He threw it toward the shore and it flew across the
water, where it did a little six-hop dance on the surface. “Rats,”
he said. “I’m losing my touch. Six is terrible.”
“It is?”
“Well, yeah,” he said. “My record’s
fourteen.”
“Fourteen? You can’t be serious.”
“As I live and stand here,” he said, crossing his
heart with his hand the way you do when you’re eleven years old.
And a member of a Boy Scout troop. “I was once the
rock-skipping champion of this island.”
I didn’t feel like laughing, but I couldn’t help
myself. “They have competitions for rock skipping?”
“Sure do,” he said. “Now you try.”
I looked down toward the sand and reached for a
flat stone. “Here goes,” I said, winding up and then letting go.
The rock hit the water and belly flopped. “See? I’m
terrible.”
“Nah,” he said. “You just need practice.”
I smiled. His face was worn and wrinkled like an
old leather-bound book. But his eyes . . . well, they told me that
somewhere inside the smile lines resided a young man.
“May I interest you in a cup of coffee?” he asked,
pointing up the shore to a little white house above the bulkhead.
His eyes sparkled.
“Yes,” I said. “That sounds wonderful.”
We walked up the concrete steps that led to a
moss-covered pathway. Its six stepping-stones deposited us at
Henry’s entryway, under the shadow of two large old cedar trees
standing sentry.
He opened the screen door. Its screech rivaled that
of a few seagulls from the roof who squealed in disapproval as they
flew back toward the water.
“I’ve been meaning to get this door fixed,” he
said, slipping off his boots on the porch. I followed his lead and
did the same.
My cheeks warmed from the fire roaring and
crackling in the living room. “You make yourself comfortable,” he
said. “I’ll put the coffee on.”
I nodded and walked to the fireplace, with its dark
mahogany mantel lined with seashells, small shiny rocks, and
black-and-white photos in simple frames. One of the pictures caught
my eye. Its subject wore her blond hair curled and styled close to
her head, the way women did in the 1940s. She oozed glamour, like a
model or an actress, standing there on the beach with the wind
blowing her dress against her body, the outline of her breasts and
her thin waist visible. There was a house in the background,
Henry’s house, and those cedar trees, much smaller then, but just
as recognizable. I wondered if she had been his wife. Her pose
seemed too suggestive for a sister. Whoever this was, Henry adored
her. I was sure of it.
He approached with two big coffee mugs in
hand.
“She’s beautiful,” I said, picking up the photo and
sitting down on the couch with it for a closer look. “Your
wife?”
He looked surprised by my question, then answered,
simply, “No.” He handed me a mug and then stood up and ran his
fingers along his chin, the way men do when they’re confused or
unsure about something.
“I’m sorry,” I said, quickly replacing the frame on
the mantel. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
“No, no,” he said, suddenly smiling. “It’s silly, I
guess. It’s been more than sixty years; you’d think I’d be able to
talk about her.”
“Her?”
“She was my fiancée,” he continued. “We were going
to be married, but . . . things didn’t work out.” He paused as if
changing his mind about something. “I probably shouldn’t be—”
We both looked up when we heard a knock at the
door. “Henry?” It was a man’s voice. “Are you home?”
“Oh, it’s Jack,” Henry said, turning to me. He said
the name in a familiar way, as though I was expected to know
him.
I watched from the living room as he opened the
door and welcomed a dark-haired man about my age. He was tall, so
tall that he had to duck a little when entering the house. He wore
jeans and a gray wool sweater, and even though it was only
midmorning, the faint shadow visible on his jawline hinted at the
fact that he hadn’t yet shaved, or showered, either.
“Hi,” he said a little awkwardly, as his eyes met
mine. “I’m Jack.”
Henry spoke for me. “This is Emily—you know, Bee
Larson’s niece.”
Jack looked at me, and then back at Henry. “Bee’s
niece?”
“Yes,” Henry replied. “She’s visiting for the
month.”
“Welcome,” Jack said, tugging at the cuff of his
sweater. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt; I started cooking and
halfway through the recipe realized I was out of eggs. You don’t
happen to have two, do you?”
“Of course,” Henry said as he headed to the
kitchen.
While Henry was gone, my eyes met Jack’s, but I
quickly looked away. He rubbed his forehead; I fiddled with the
zipper on my sweater. The silence was as thick and stifling as the
murky sand on the beach outside the window.
A splash sounded in the water outside. I startled,
catching my foot on the edge of the side table, helplessly watching
the little white vase sitting atop a stack of books topple to the
ground, where it broke into four jagged pieces.
“Oh no,” I said, shaking my head, equally concerned
about breaking one of Henry’s treasured heirlooms as I was about
embarrassing myself in front of Jack.
“Here, I’ll help you hide the evidence,” he said,
smiling. I liked him instantly.
“I’m the world’s clumsiest woman,” I said, burying
my face in my hands.
“Good,” he replied, pulling up the sleeve of his
sweater to reveal the black-and-blue of a fresh bruise. “I’m the
world’s clumsiest man.” He pulled a plastic bag out of his pocket
and carefully picked up what was left of the vase. “We can glue it
together later,” he continued.
I grinned.
Henry returned with an egg carton and handed it to
Jack. “Sorry, I had to run out to the refrigerator in the garage,”
he said.
“Thanks, Henry,” Jack said. “I owe you.”
“Won’t you stay?”
“I can’t,” he said, glancing my way, “I really
should get back, but thanks.” He turned to me with the look of an
accomplice. “Nice to meet you, Emily.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said, wishing he didn’t have
to go so quickly.
Henry and I watched from the window as Jack made
his way back to the beach. “He’s an odd one, that Jack,” he said.
“Here I have the prettiest girl on the island in my living room,
and he can’t even stay for coffee.”
I was certain I was blushing. “You’re much too
kind,” I said. “Look at me. I just rolled out of bed.”
He winked. “I meant what I said.”
“You’re a dear,” I said.
We chatted through a second cup, but a glance at my
watch told me that I’d been gone for almost two hours. “I should
probably head back, Henry,” I said. “Bee is going to wonder.”
“Of course,” he replied.
“I’ll see you on the beach,” I said.
“Anytime you’re passing by, please, stop in.”
The tide was out now, exposing a secret layer of
life on the shore, and walking back, I found myself picking up
shells and big pieces of bubbly emerald green kelp and popping the
air bubbles out of the slimy flesh the way I had so many years ago.
A rock sparkled in the sun, and I kneeled down to retrieve it,
which is when I heard footsteps behind me. Animal footsteps, and
then shouting.
“Russ, here boy!”
I turned around, and in an instant, a big and
bumbling golden retriever tackled me with the strength of an NFL
defensive back. “Whoa!” I yelled, wiping my face, which had just
been licked.
“I’m so sorry,” Jack said. “He snuck out the back
door. I hope he didn’t scare you. He’s harmless, all one hundred
and eight pounds of him.”
“I’m fine,” I said, smiling, brushing some sand off
my pants, before kneeling down to give the pooch a proper
greeting.
“And you must be Russ,” I said. “Nice to meet you,
fellow. I’m Emily.”
I looked up at Jack. “I was just on my way back to
Bee’s.”
He snapped the leash on to Russ’s collar. “No more
stunts like that, boy,” he said, before looking at me. “I’ll walk
with you; we’re heading your way.”
It was a minute, maybe longer, before either of us
spoke. I was content with the sound of our boots on the rocky
shore.
“So, do you live here in Washington?” Jack finally
said.
“No,” I said. “New York.”
He nodded. “Never been.”
“You’re kidding,” I said. “You’ve never been to New
York City?”
He shrugged. “I guess I’ve never had a reason to
go. I’ve lived here all my life. Never really considered
leaving.”
I nodded, looking at the sprawling expanse of
beach. “Well, being on the island again”—I paused and looked
around—“I guess it makes me wonder why I ever left. I don’t miss
New York at all right now.”
“So what brings you here this month?”
Didn’t I already tell him that I’m visiting my
aunt? Wasn’t that explanation enough? I wasn’t about to explain
that I was running from my past, which in a sense I was, or that I
was trying to figure out my future, or that, heaven forbid, I’d
just been divorced. I took a deep breath and said instead, “I’m
doing research for my next book.”
“Oh,” he said. “You’re a writer?”
“Yes,” I said, swallowing hard. I hated the
self-importance of my tone. Could any of this really be
considered research? As usual, the moment I started talking
about my career I began to feel vulnerable.
“Wow,” he said. “So what do you write?”
I told him about Calling Ali Larson and he
stopped suddenly. “You’re kidding,” he said. “They made that into a
movie, right?”
I nodded. “How about you?” I said, suddenly eager
to change the subject. “What do you do?”
“I’m an artist,” he answered. “A painter.”
My eyes widened. “Oh, wow, I’d love to see your
work sometime.” But the second I spoke, I felt my cheeks burn with
embarrassment. Could I be any more awkward, any rustier? Have I
completely forgotten how to talk to a man?
Instead of acknowledging the statement, he flashed
a half grin before kicking his foot in the sand, dislodging a piece
of driftwood that had been trapped. “Can you believe the beach this
morning?” he said, pointing to the debris scattered along the
shoreline. “There must have been quite a storm last night.”
I loved the beach after a storm. When I was
thirteen, a banker’s bag washed up on this same beach with exactly
$319 inside—I know because I counted out every bill—along with a
waterlogged handgun. Bee called the police, who traced the remnants
to a bank robbery gone wrong seventeen years prior. Seventeen
years. The Puget Sound is like a time machine, hiding things
and then spewing them back onto its shores at the time and place of
its choosing.
“So you said you’ve lived here on the island all
your life—then you must know my aunt.”
He nodded. “Know her? You could say that.”
Bee’s house lay a few steps ahead. “Would you like
to come in?” I said. “You could say hello to Bee.”
He hesitated, as if remembering something or
someone. “No,” he said, squinting as he looked cautiously up toward
the windows. “No, I better not.”
I bit the edge of my lip. “OK,” I replied. “Well,
I’ll see you around, then.”
That was that, I told myself, making my way to the
back door. Why did he seem so uncomfortable?
“Wait, Emily,” Jack called out from the beach a few
moments later.
I turned around.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’m a little out of practice.”
He pushed a piece of his dark hair out of his eyes, and the wind
blew it right back where it was. “I was just wondering if you’d
like to come to dinner,” he said, “at my house. Saturday night at
seven?”
I stood there looking at him, waiting to open my
mouth. It took a few seconds, but I found my voice, and my head.
“I’d love that,” I said, nodding.
“See you then, Emily,” he said, grinning
bigger.
I had noticed Bee watching us from the window, but
when I entered the house from the mudroom she had moved to the
couch.
“So I see you’ve met Jack,” she said, her eyes
fixed on her crossword puzzle.
“Yes,” I said. “He was at Henry’s today.”
“Henry’s?” Bee said, looking up. “What were you
doing there?”
“I was on a walk this morning, and I ran into him
on the beach.” I shrugged. “He invited me in for coffee.”
Bee looked concerned.
“What is it?” I asked.
She set her pencil down and looked up at me. “Be
careful,” she said cryptically, “especially with Jack.”
“Careful? Why?”
“People aren’t always who they appear to be,” she
said, tucking her reading glasses into the blue velvet case she
kept on the side table.
“What do you mean?”
She ignored my question in a way that only Bee
could. “Well, is it twelve thirty already?” She sighed. “It’s time
for my nap.”
She poured herself a demitasse of sherry. “My
medicine,” she said with a wink. “I’ll see you later this
afternoon, dear.”
It was clear that there was some kind of history
between Bee and Jack. I could see it on his face, and I could hear
it in her voice.
I leaned back on the couch and yawned. Enticed by
the allure of a nap, I found my way to the guest bedroom and curled
up in the big bed with its pink, ruffled comforter. I picked up the
novel I’d bought at the airport, but after battling through two
chapters, I tossed the book on the floor.
I freed my wrist from the constraints of my watch—I
can’t sleep with any hardware on—and opened the drawer of the
bedside table. But as I dropped the watch inside, I noticed
something in the shadows.
It was a journal, a diary of some sort. I picked it
up and ran my hand along the spine. It was old, and its intriguing
red velvet cover looked worn and threadbare. I touched it,
instantly feeling a pang of guilt. What if this was an old diary of
Bee’s? I shuddered, setting it carefully back inside the drawer. A
few moments passed, and I found myself with the diary in my hands
again. It was too irresistible. Just one look at the first page,
that’s all.
The pages, yellowed and brittle, had a pristine
feel that can only be cultivated by the passage of time. I scanned
the first page for a clue, and found it in the bottom right corner,
where the words Manuscript Exercise Book were typed in black
ink, along with standard publisher’s jargon. I recalled a book I’d
read long ago in which a character from the early twentieth century
used such a notebook to write a novel. Is this a draft of a
novel, or a private diary? Fascinated, I turned the page,
extinguishing my feelings of guilt with ample amounts of curiosity.
Just one more page, then I’ll put it back.
The words on the next page, written in the most
beautiful penmanship I’d ever seen, sent my heart racing. “The
Story of What Happened in a Small Island Town in 1943.”
Bee had never written, at least not that I was
aware. Uncle Bill? No, the lettering was clearly the work of a
female. Why would it be here—in this pink room? And who
would leave off their byline, and why?
I took a deep breath, and turned the page. What
would be the harm in simply reading a few lines? When I took in
the beginning paragraph, I could no longer resist.
I never intended on kissing Elliot. Married women
don’t behave like that, at least not married women like me. It
wasn’t proper. But the tide was high, and there was a cold breeze
blowing, and Elliot’s arms were draped around my body like a warm
shawl, caressing me in places where he shouldn’t have been, and I
could scarcely think of much else. It was like how we used to be.
And even though I was married now, even though circumstances had
changed, my heart had managed to stay fixed in time—frozen, as if
waiting for this very moment—the moment in which Elliot and I found
our way back to this place. Bobby never held me like this. Or maybe
he did, but if so, his touch didn’t provoke this kind of passion,
this kind of fire.
And yes, I never intended on kissing Elliot on that
cold March night, nor did I plan for the unspeakable things that
happened next, the chain of events that would be my undoing, our
undoing. But this was the chain of events that began in the month
of March of 1943, events that would forever change my life and the
lives of those around me. My name is Esther, and this is my
story.
I looked up. Esther? Who is Esther? A pen name,
perhaps? A fictional character? I heard a knock, and
instinctively pulled up the comforter to hide the pages I was
reading.
“Yes?” I said.
Bee opened the door. “I can’t sleep,” she said,
rubbing her eyes. “How about we make a trip to the market
instead?”
“Sure,” I said, even though I really wanted to stay
and keep reading.
“I’ll meet you out front, when you’re ready,” she
said, staring at me for a few seconds longer than was comfortable
before breaking her gaze. I was starting to get the feeling that
people on the island were all in on some big secret—one that no one
had any intention of sharing with me.