Chapter 8
March 6
“Want to go into Seattle today?” Bee asked
over breakfast. That’s how people on Bainbridge Island talked about
Seattle, as a total immersion experience.
“Why don’t you ask Evelyn to come with us?” I
suggested. Time was short, though Bee didn’t know it.
Bee placed the call. “Why don’t you join us today
in Seattle? We’re catching the ten a.m. ferry to do some shopping.
We’d love for you to come.”
Two seconds later it was a done deal. Evelyn met us
at the ferry terminal, which was reminiscent of a train station,
with panoramic views of the water and an espresso stand to satisfy
a craving for, say, a tall split-shot mocha, as I had. Bainbridge
Islanders frequently walked onto the ferry, leaving their cars
tucked cozily away in the terminal parking lot. Since the boat
discharged passengers in the heart of the city, there was no need
to drive a car, even if getting around meant climbing a few hills.
Even in their eighties, these women wouldn’t dream of forgoing a
city walk for a cab.
Evelyn wore khaki capris, a black boat-neck
sweater, and simple ballet flats. “Thanks for saving me from
another dull day with the cats,” she said.
I smiled. It occurred to me that she didn’t look
like a person with a terminal illness. She still had her hair—a
wig? I wondered. Her cheeks shone with color, which could have
been courtesy of makeup. But it was mostly that she didn’t
act sick. While the cancer may have ravaged her body, Evelyn
would not let it take her spirit.
“So, what’s the plan for the day?” I asked as we
made our way onto the ferry. Among the first to board, we secured a
coveted booth closest to the front of the boat, where views of
Seattle’s skyline were the best.
“Well,” said Bee, making herself comfortable on the
vinyl bench seat, “we’ll hit Westlake Center, of course, and then
there’s this delightful little bistro on Marion Street where I
thought we could have lunch.”
Marion Street. Isn’t that the street in the book
where Esther ended her relationship with Elliot for good? I
thought about the gorgeous ring she’d chucked into a storm drain
and shook my head. It seemed like such a waste, such an impulsive
thing to do. But then again, she’d had her reasons.
I remembered by name the Landon Park Hotel, the
place where the tragic scene had transpired. Perhaps Bee, or
whoever was the true author, had used historical reference points.
I was eager to see if the old hotel still existed, or had ever
existed.
“Anyone feel like clam chowder?” Bee said, standing
up. She always ordered clam chowder on the ferry, no matter what
time it was, no matter that the passage lasted a mere half
hour.
“Not for me,” Evelyn said.
“I’ll have some, if you’re heading to the
cafeteria,” I said. Bee nodded approvingly and walked away.
As soon as Bee was out of earshot, I turned to
Evelyn. “How are you feeling?”
“I’ve had better days.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, suddenly feeling guilty that
Evelyn’s accepting my invitation was depriving her of rest.
“Hah,” she said. “Not for me, thanks. I’d rather
feel sick in Seattle with the two of you than feel sick in bed at
home.”
I nodded. “When are you planning on telling
her?”
Evelyn looked concerned. “Soon.”
“I’m getting worried,” I said, “about how she’s
going to take the news.”
Evelyn looked down at her hands, so tightly clasped
together that I could see the little blue veins poking out. “I’m
worried too, dear.”
I looked out the window and then back at Evelyn.
“It’s just that as far as I know, you’re the only real friend Bee
has.”
She nodded. “Are you still reading that
diary?”
“Yes,” I said. “I can hardly set it down.”
She peered down the walkway to see if Bee was
returning. “We don’t have much time,” she said. “I won’t be here
much longer. But I need you to know something: This story you’re
reading, it holds many secrets—ones that could change life today.
For you. For your aunt. For others.”
“I wish you could just tell me what this is all
about,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound too impatient.
“I’m sorry, dear,” she said. “This is your
journey.”
As we moved into open water, I felt time stand
still. “Evelyn,” I said, looking up from the window. “Did you know
my grandma?”
She studied my face for a while before answering.
“Yes, dear, I did.”
“Maybe you know, then,” I said, “what Bee told my
mother about Grandma Jane that caused such a rift in the
family.”
Evelyn nodded. “She told your mother the startling
truth about your grandmother,” she said.
“Startling?”
“Yes,” she replied. “But, Emily, it doesn’t have to
end this way for your family.”
“Evelyn, what does that mean?”
“You can fix things, Emily,” she said. “You can
bring the story the closure it needs.”
I ran my fingers through my hair and sighed. “It’s
like I’m trying to put together a jigsaw puzzle, and everyone is
hiding the pieces from me.”
“Be patient,” Evelyn said quietly. “You’ll find
your answers in time. It’s the island’s way.”
I could see Bee making her way back to our booth.
“Here we are,” she said, returning to her seat. “One clam chowder
for you.”
“Thanks,” I said, opening up a package of saltine
crackers and dunking one into the creamy hot soup.
“Evelyn,” Bee said, “where’s your appetite? You
always have chowder on the ferry.”
I shot Evelyn a look as if to say, “Now is the
right time. Tell her.” But she kept her poker face. “I had a huge
breakfast this morning; I guess this old stomach of mine just isn’t
what it used to be.”
“Well,” she replied, “we’re having lunch in a few
hours, so it’s not like you’ll starve.”
“So,” Bee said cautiously, turning to me. “How was
last night at Jack’s?”
Evelyn’s face lit up. “Jack Evanston?”
“Yes, Jack Evanston,” I said.
Evelyn and Bee exchanged a significant look.
“We’re two old women who haven’t had a date in
several decades, Emily,” said Evelyn. “Give us a little
nugget.”
“Well, he cooked dinner,” I continued. “Can you
believe that? A man who can cook. And he showed me his
paintings.”
Bee grimaced and looked out the window at the
water, but Evelyn ignored her. “The evening sounds like a dream.
Did you enjoy yourself?”
“I did,” I said. “But I was wondering, with all the
visits I made to the island as a child, why didn’t I ever meet
Jack? I never saw him on the beach.”
Evelyn opened her mouth to explain, but Bee cut her
off. “Whatever happened to Greg?” she asked.
“Good heavens,” Evelyn said, “you have two men
chasing after you?”
“She does,” Bee said.
Evelyn glowed with nostalgia. “Oh, to be young
again.”
Just then the ferry’s horn sounded, announcing our
arrival into Seattle. Energized by the other riders’ eagerness to
disembark, we walked quickly along the gangway and down the stairs
that led to the sidewalk lined with cabs, panhandlers, and pigeons
pecking around for crumbs.
Once we reached the crosswalk, Evelyn took a deep
breath. “Ah,” she said. “I’ve missed that scent.”
It was the same ferryboat-engine-seawater-city
smell I’d come to love, but on the Seattle side it was accented by
fried fish from the restaurants along the piers.
“Do you ever regret moving back, Evelyn?” Bee said
suddenly.
Evelyn looked at me instead of at Bee, as if to
fill me in. “Emily, when my husband died ten years ago, I moved
back to Bainbridge. But I had spent my entire married life here in
the city—up a ways, on Capitol Hill.”
“I’m sorry about your husband,” I said. “You must
have so many memories here of him.”
“Yes,” she said. “I do. But the island has always
been my home.”
We walked in silence up three hills until we came
to Marion Street. I held Evelyn’s elbow to support her, something
Bee would have done had she known about her friend’s illness.
“Ah,” Bee said. “We’re here.” She pointed to a
restaurant across the street called Talulah’s. “Let’s sit down. I
could use a rest after that walk.”
I nodded, and Evelyn quickly agreed.
Inside, the restaurant was cheerful and bright,
with its sunshine-colored walls and daffodils in little
etched-glass vases on each table. With the exception of a man
having coffee and a sandwich at a far table, we were the only
people in the place.
It was eleven a.m.—a bit early for lunch, but just
the right time for mimosas. Evelyn ordered a round. And by the time
we finished our second, we all felt happy, not to mention hungry.
Despite the clam chowder on the boat, I guiltlessly ordered a
burger.
“So,” Bee said after the waitress had cleared our
plates. “Where to next?”
I looked out the window and onto Marion Street.
“Why don’t we take a walk along Marion? That will get us to
Westlake Center, right?”
“Sure,” Bee said.
She paid the bill and the three of us walked out
onto the sidewalk. As we passed each building, I looked up for the
hotel, the one where Esther had seen Elliot with the other woman.
There must have been forty-five Starbucks, but no Landon Park
Hotel. And then something caught my eye: a brick building just as
Esther had described—with two bold-looking columns in front. And
there was a newspaper dispenser nearby too. Coincidence? Then the
kicker: About fifty feet away was a storm drain. I froze for a
moment. It had to be the place. I needed to see for myself,
fiction or not.
“Emily?” Bee said, turning around to see what I was
doing standing there, motionless, on the sidewalk. “Why are you
stopping here? Do you see a shop you want to go into, dear?”
Without looking at Bee, I shook my head. “I just
want to check the newspaper headlines,” I lied, running across the
street in haste, nearly missing a gray sedan. The displeased driver
sounded a honk.
And there, on the other side of the road, was the
building. It had to be the hotel. “Excuse me,” I said to the
elderly doorman. “Is this the Landon Park Hotel?”
He looked at me with wide eyes. “Landon Park?” He
shook his head. “Why, no, this is the Washington Athletic
Club.”
“Right,” I said. “Of course.”
I turned to walk back, this time using the
sidewalk.
“Wait, miss,” he called out.
“This used to be the Landon Park Hotel, but
not since the nineteen fifties, when the place nearly burned
down.”
“Really?” I said, grinning.
He nodded. “It was completely gutted.”
I thanked him and glanced across the street to
where Bee and Evelyn were standing. They both looked confused,
especially Bee.
“I’ll be right there,” I shouted, pretending to be
looking at the newspaper machine, but I was really soaking in the
spot where Elliot and Esther’s troubles had begun. Standing there
made the story feel that much more real, even if they were only
figments of someone’s daydreams a lifetime ago.
We skipped the shopping trip and caught the two
o’clock ferry. I faked a headache for Evelyn’s sake; I could see
that she wasn’t doing well. She looked pale and fatigued. I knew
she needed to rest, but I also knew she wouldn’t admit it.
Bee headed to her bedroom for a nap, and I did too.
But I didn’t plan on sleeping.
I could hear the phone ringing in the kitchen.
Busy in the bathroom, where I was bathing the baby, I decided that
the caller could wait. But the phone kept ringing persistently,
until I’d rung out the washcloth and wrapped her in a little blue
terrycloth towel that Bobby’s mother had given us. She’d been
hoping for a boy.
“Hello?” I finally answered. I didn’t mask the
annoyance in my voice.
It was Frances. “Esther, you’re not going to
believe it.” Her voice sounded choked up, excited, panicky—all at
once.
“Slow down and tell me,” I said, adjusting the baby
so I could hold the phone more comfortably.
“It’s Elliot,” she said. When she said his name, I
nearly fell to my knees.
“No, no, Frances,” I said. “Don’t tell me. I can’t
bear to hear it.”
“No,” she said quickly. “He’s alive. He’s fine. And
he’s home! He’s home from the war.”
Tears began to well in my eyes. “How do you know
this?”
She paused for a minute, as if considering whether
to tell me the full truth or the partial version. “Well,” she said
finally, “because he was here.”
“Where?”
“At my house,” she said. “He just left.”
“What on earth was he doing there?”
I could sense Frances stiffening, and tension
swelled within me. I was apprehensive about their friendship, and I
couldn’t hide it. “Frances,” I continued. “What was he doing
there?”
“Esther, I don’t know what you’re implying,” she
said defensively. “He knows I love photography so he gave me an
album with some photos he took in the South Pacific. They’re
beautiful. You should come see them—coconut trees, beaches, the
people he encountered.”
I formed my right hand into a tight fist. “Why
would he give you a gift?”
“What kind of question is that?” Frances said,
sounding hurt. “Let’s not forget that we’re old friends too,
Esther. It was simply a kind gesture.”
“And what about me?” I said. “Am I not a
friend?”
“Esther, you’re married with a child,” she said a
little more bluntly than I had expected. “He doesn’t exactly feel
welcome on your doorstep.”
The anger was building now, stirring up years of
emotions that I’d tried to ignore. “You’ve always put him above our
friendship,” I said bitterly. “You’ve always wanted him for
yourself.”
Frances was silent.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean that.”
“Yes you did,” Frances said.
“No, no, I didn’t. It came out wrong. Can you
forgive me?”
“I have to go, Esther.” There was a click, and then
I heard nothing but the lonely dial tone.
I stared into my closet the next morning, and
finally pulled out the fitted blue dress I’d bought in Seattle last
year. It had a black belt and a V neckline with a white peony on
the lapel, just like the ones in the fashion magazines.
I called Rose. “Hi,” I said. “Have you heard the
news?”
“About Elliot?” she said. “Yes.”
I sighed. “I’m a wreck.”
“Why should you be? He’s alive.”
“Yes, I know, but this island is too small for the
both of us.”
Rose knew that as well as I did. “Want me to come
over? I can catch the next ferry.”
“Yes,” I said. “Can you meet me for lunch? I can be
at Ray’s at noon, just after I do my shopping. I’ll have the baby,
but if I’m lucky, she’ll sleep in her carriage.”
“Perfect,” she said.
Ever since Rose had moved to Seattle, the island
felt lonely. I had Frances, of course, but the two of us had grown
distant in the past year, for reasons I understood but couldn’t
bring myself to speak of. Until now.
“Rose,” I said, “is Frances in love with Elliot?”
It sounded absurd that one of my best friends could love the man I
loved, but I had to ask. I had to know. And I knew Rose would have
the answer.
“You need to ask her yourself,” she said simply.
But I didn’t have to. Somewhere in my heart, I already knew.
At the market, I could hardly turn down one aisle
before I was peering down another to see if Elliot might be there.
But instead of him, I ran into Janice Stevens, my next-door
neighbor, who was staked out near the canned goods. She was a
widow, which is why I tried not to feel irritated by the way she
looked at me or the things she said. She was always baking cookies,
cakes, and pies, and pointing out the fact that I didn’t. Frances
told me once that Janice had eyes for Bobby, and perhaps she did.
She’d bring over her confections and say things like “You poor man!
Esther never bakes for you, so it’s my duty as a neighbor to make
sure you’re looked after.” She always wore a fresh application of
red lipstick and had a habit of lingering in our doorway longer
than I liked.
Even in high school, I’d gotten the feeling that
she wanted me to fail, that she was waiting in the wings, ready to
swoop in like a vulture as soon as I showed any sign of
weakness.
It’s partly why I braced myself that morning when I
saw her. She looked at me with a saccharine smile and said, “I
heard that Elliot is home. Have you seen him?”
Janice knew the mention of Elliot’s name was bound
to get a rise out of me.
“I saw him this morning,” she said.
I feigned interest in a can of tomatoes.
“Oh?”
“He’s quite tan from the South Pacific,” she
continued. “He looked so handsome.”
“Where did you see him?” I finally asked, caving,
even though I knew I shouldn’t.
“He was having breakfast with Frances—at Ray’s,”
she said. “Didn’t she tell you?”
I dropped the can of tomatoes.
Janice bent down to pick it up and gave me a sly
smile. “Frances and Elliot would make a darling couple, wouldn’t
they?”
“Simply darling,” I said, snatching the can out of
her hands before pushing my cart past her.
“Oh, Esther, stop,” Rose said as we sat at a table
at Ray’s. “Don’t read into things.”
“Read into things?” I said. “How can I not? Since
Elliot’s been home, they’ve been inseparable.”
I knew by the look on Rose’s face that she was
disappointed in Frances, as I was, but she wouldn’t take sides.
Rose never took sides.
“Why don’t you two talk about it?” she
suggested.
I nodded. But I was really wondering what THEY had
talked about this morning. Why had Elliot come back from war and
taken such an interest in my best friend? Wasn’t there some
unwritten rule that former lovers are not supposed to carry on with
your friends?
Just then, the waiter approached our table, but not
to take our orders. He looked right at me. “Are you Esther?”
“Yes,” I said, confused.
“Good,” he said. “I should have known by the way
the gentleman described you. He said you’d be the prettiest woman
in the restaurant.” The waiter cast an apologetic glance at Rose.
“Sorry. You are quite beautiful too, miss.” But Rose smiled as if
she didn’t care, and I knew she didn’t.
From behind his back, he pulled out a single tulip,
my favorite flower—pure white, with the very tip of each petal
tinged red. I had never seen a tulip like that, and it nearly took
my breath away.
“For you,” he said, handing me the flower, along
with a white envelope. My name was written in Elliot’s handwriting.
I had memorized his e’s along with the special embellishment he
added to each s.
“Go read it in private,” Rose said. “I’ll stay with
the baby.”
“Thanks,” I said. She knew I needed to savor every
word.
I ran out to the sidewalk and sat down on a bench
before tearing open the envelope.
My Dearest Esther,
It’s wrong of me to be reaching out to you like
this, I know. You’re married, and I hear you have a child. But I
need you to know something, to set the record straight. Can you
meet me, tonight, on the beach in front of my house? I’ll be there
waiting for you, in hopes that you’ll come. And if you do, I’ll
know we are meant to be together. And if you don’t, I will know
that it is the end for us, that I must make plans to move on, to
leave the island, and let my heart say good-bye. Please say you’ll
come. Please tell me that despite everything, you’ll come. It’s a
lot to ask, but I pray that the fire that still burns in me also
burns in you. I’ll be waiting.
Yours,
Elliot
Elliot
I held the letter to my chest, and a single tear
trickled down my face. As I brushed it away, I could see movement
from the corner of my eye. But when I turned to look, whatever or
whoever it was had vanished.