Chapter 9
March 7
I spent much of the next morning writing,
or at least trying to write. The story had inspired me to put words
together again, not that the words I typed were amounting to much.
After exactly one hour and twelve minutes, I’d hammered out a
two-paragraph opener to a new novel that, frankly, stank.
So when Bee knocked on the door, I was eager for a
break.
“Feel like a walk?” she asked, leaning into the
doorway. “Oh, sorry, I see that you’re writing. I didn’t mean to
disturb you, dear.”
I looked outside and could see that the sun had
pushed through the clouds; the beach looked sparkling. “No, I’d
love to,” I said, setting my mug down.
I grabbed my sweater and then slipped on a pair of
boots, and we made our way down to the shore. For as long as I can
remember, Bee always went left instead of right. And now I knew
why. She wanted to avoid Jack’s house and whatever history they
shared.
“Are you glad you came?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, reaching for her hand and giving it
a squeeze.
“I am too,” she said. Then she paused and hunched
over to examine a little orange starfish caught in a game of
tug-of-war between the shore and the waves. Bee gently picked it
up, then carefully sent it on its way a few feet out into the
sound.
“There, little friend,” she said. “Go home.”
We walked together for a little while, until she
stopped and turned to me. “It’s been lonely here,” she said.
I had never heard her say anything like that
before. Uncle Bill had been gone for at least twenty years, maybe
longer. I had always thought she liked her solitude.
“Why don’t you come visit me in New York?” I
suggested. “You could spend April with me.”
Bee shook her head. “I belong here,” she
said.
I felt a little hurt. If she’s so lonely, why
wouldn’t she want my company?
“I’m sorry, honey,” she said. “I’m getting older,
and . . . you’ll see, when you’re my age. Leaving your home starts
to feel like an epic journey, one I’m afraid I no longer have the
energy for.”
I nodded as if I understood, but I didn’t. I hoped
I wouldn’t feel tied to my home in my elder years, but maybe it was
unavoidable.
“Emily,” she said. “There’s something I need to ask
you. I’ve been thinking about where you are in life, and where I
am, and, well, I wondered if you’d ever consider moving here,
living here, with me on Bainbridge Island.”
My mouth fell open. For much of my life the island
had been my secret place, my personal retreat, but my home?
“Wow,” I said. “I’m honored that you’d want to have
me. . . .”
“Emily,” she said, cutting me off before I could
decline her invitation. “I’m leaving the house to you—in my will.
The house, the property, everything.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “Bee,” I said,
suddenly concerned. “Is everything all right?”
“I’m only planning ahead,” she said. “I guess I
wanted you to know that the house was yours, in case you wanted to
think about a life here someday. Maybe someday soon.”
It was a lot to consider. “Wow, Bee,” I said. “I .
. .”
“You don’t have to say anything. Just know that the
choice is yours. You were the only one who loved this place. Your
mother, she’d board it up. And your sister would sell it just as
fast as that husband of hers could find a buyer. Of course it’s
yours to sell too, but I know I’m leaving this place in good
hands.” She paused to watch an eagle fly overhead. “Yes, the home
is yours. Just consider me the old lady who occupies one of the
bedrooms. You come stay as often as you like, for as long as you
like. And don’t forget my invitation to move in.”
I nodded. “I’ll give it some thought,” I said,
squeezing her hand again.
I heard my phone ringing in my sweater pocket, and
when I looked at the screen, I could see that it was a local
number.
“Hello?” I answered.
“Emily? Hi, it’s Greg.”
I had no idea how he got my cell number, but then I
realized that after we’d drunk all that wine at the restaurant the
other night, I’d scribbled it on a napkin and he’d tucked it into
his pocket. Classy.
“Hi,” I said, remembering Heart Rock, the kiss, our
unfinished business.
“Hey, I was just wondering if you might be free one
of these nights. I’d love to have you out to my place for drinks.
I’m a terrible cook, so we could order in, or do takeout. Whatever
you’d like.”
“Um,” I said, feeling caught off guard by the
invitation. “Sure.”
“Great,” he said. I could picture his smile. “How
about tomorrow night, at seven?”
“Yeah,” I said. “That would be . . . great.”
“Good,” he said. “We can pick up Chinese along the
way. See you then.”
Bee and I both looked up when we saw Henry waving
from his front porch. The smoke billowing out of his chimney
mingled with the soft mist rising off the morning tide, creating a
thick fog one could disappear into.
“Good morning, you two,” he called out.
Bee nodded. “We were just on our way home,” she
said without pause.
“But surely you can stop for a cup of coffee,” he
countered.
I’d asked Bee, on the night I arrived, about Henry.
Her answer was direct, yet hardly informative. “He’s just a very
old friend,” she had said, her words snuffing out the flame of my
intrigue.
Bee nodded at Henry, and I followed her up to the
house. It occurred to me that they would have made a very odd
couple. They looked awkward standing there together, and it erased
any suspicions that they had ever been romantically involved, not
that a short man and a tall woman couldn’t have an explosive love
affair.
I smiled and said, “Coffee sounds wonderful.”
Once inside, I sat where I had when Jack came in
the door that morning last week. I suddenly remembered the
vase.
“Henry,” I said. “I have a confession. Your white
vase, I . . .”
He winked at me. “I know,” he said, pointing to the
now intact vase, which was presently resting on the mantel with a
single daffodil inside. “As good as new,” he continued. “Jack
brought it by this morning.”
I grinned before hesitating. “This morning?”
Henry looked puzzled. “Yes.” He paused for a
second. “Is there something wrong?”
“No, no,” I said. “It’s nothing. I just thought he
was in Seattle. He said he was spending a few days there.”
Didn’t Jack say he’ d be away for a few days?
Did he change his plans? The discrepancy in the details gnawed
at me.
Henry went to pour the coffee, and while I sat
down, Bee cased the room like a detective, examining every object
slowly and cautiously.
“He’s not much of housekeeper, is he?” she
said.
“I guess it’s the curse of being a bachelor,” I
replied. But then I remembered Jack’s home, perfectly organized and
clean—surprisingly clean.
She nodded and sat down in a chair by the
window.
“Did he ever marry?” I asked in a whisper,
remembering the woman in the photo on the mantel.
Bee shook her head as though the very idea of Henry
marrying anyone was, well, crazy. “No,” she said.
I looked around the little living room with its
wainscot paneling and old plank floors until my eyes stopped at the
mantel. I searched the display of beach rocks and frames. The photo
was gone.
“Wait,” I said, confused. “Last week there was a
photo of a woman, an old girlfriend, maybe,” I said,
conspiratorially. “Do you know the photo I’m talking about?”
“No,” she said in a distant voice. “I haven’t been
here in a very long time.”
“You’d know her if you saw her,” I said. “She was
blond and beautiful, standing right in front of Henry’s house,
where the photo was taken.”
Bee looked out the window at the sound, pausing the
way she does when she’s lost in thought. “It’s been so long,” she
said. “I don’t recall.”
Henry was back with coffee a few minutes later, but
Bee seemed uncomfortable and agitated as she sipped hers. I
wondered what was bothering her.
I made conversation for the both of us, coaxing
Henry into a monologue about his garden. Bee never made eye contact
with him, not once. Then, just after she took the last sip of her
coffee, she abruptly set the cup down on the saucer and stood up.
“Emily, I’m afraid I have a headache,” she said. “I think it’s time
for me to head home.”
Henry held up his hand in protest. “Not yet,” he
said. “Not until the two of you see the garden. There’s something I
want to show you.”
Bee agreed reluctantly, and the three of us walked
through the kitchen to the back door that led to the yard behind
the house. We’d hardly stepped three feet outside when Bee gasped,
pointing to the garden to our right.
“Henry!” she exclaimed, surveying hundreds of
delicate light green leaves that had pushed up from the soil in
grand formation, showcasing a carpet of tiny lavender-colored
flowers, with dark purple centers.
Bee looked astonished. “How did they . . . where
did they come from?”
Henry shook his head. “I noticed them two weeks
ago. They just appeared.”
Bee turned to me, and upon seeing my confused face,
she offered an explanation. “They’re wood violets,” she said. “I
haven’t seen them on the island since . . .”
“They’re very rare,” Henry said, filling the void
that Bee had left when her voice trailed off. “You can’t plant
them, for they won’t grow. They have to choose you.”
Bee’s eyes met Henry’s, and she smiled, a gentle,
forgiving smile. It warmed me to see it. “Evelyn has a theory about
these flowers,” she said, pausing as if to pull a dusty memory off
a shelf in her mind, handling it with great care. “Yes,” she said,
the memory in plain view. “She used to say they grow where they are
needed, that they signal healing, and hope.”
“It’s ridiculous, isn’t it, Henry, to think that
violets can know,” Bee continued.
Henry nodded. “Harebrained,” he said in
agreement.
Bee shook her head in disbelief. “And to see them
in bloom, in March of all months . . .”
Henry nodded. “I know.”
Neither took their eyes off the petals before them,
so fragile, yet in great numbers stalwart and determined. I stepped
back, watching the two of them standing side by side, sharing a
moment of reflection that I could not understand. I knew it then: I
was in the presence of something much bigger than just
flowers.
Bee and I walked in silence back to the house, she
with her secrets and I with mine. And as she napped, I opened my
laptop and told myself I couldn’t look away until I had another two
paragraphs written, but all I could do was stare at the clock at
the top of my screen. After eight minutes had passed with no
inspiration, I called Annabelle.
“Hi,” she said a little limply.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she replied.
I knew her too well to believe that. “Tell me,” I
said. “I know your voice. Something’s wrong.”
She sighed. “I told myself I wasn’t going to tell
you this.”
“Tell me what?”
There was silence.
“Annie?”
“All right,” she said. “I saw Joel.”
My heart started beating faster. “Where?”
“At a café on Fifth.”
“And?”
“He asked about you.”
I was practically breathless. “What did he
say?”
“I told you I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Well, you did, and now you have to finish the
story.”
“He asked me how you were.”
“Did you tell him I was here?”
“Of course I didn’t. But I did tell him you were
dating someone.”
“Annie, you did not!”
“I did. Hey, if he can play house with another
woman, he deserves to know that you’re moving on.”
“What was his reaction?”
“Well, if you want me to tell you that he started
bawling right there, he didn’t. But he didn’t look thrilled,
either. His face said it all.”
“What did his face say, Annie?”
“That it hurt to hear of you with someone else,
dummy.”
My heart throbbed deep inside. I sat down—I
had to sit down. I felt weak, and a little sick.
“Em, are you there?”
“Yeah.”
“See? I shouldn’t have told you. Look what it’s
going to do to your healing process. Remember, Joel left you. In
such a betraying way, I might add.”
It was as certain as the freckles on my nose, but
somehow hearing Annabelle say it again—well, it stung.
“I know,” I said. “You’re right.” I sat up
straighter. “I’m going to be fine. Just fine.”
“How many times can we say ‘fine’?”
I grinned. “Fine. Do you have any other bombs to
drop?”
“Nope,” she said. “But there is a tragedy happening
in this apartment.”
“What?”
“You’re out of ice cream.”
I remembered my late-night affair with Ben &
Jerry’s Cherry Garcia before I left for the island. “A tragedy,
indeed.”
“Bye, sweetie,” she said.
As I set my cell phone on the table, Bee’s phone
began ringing. After four rings, I picked it up.
“Hello?”
“Emily, is that you?”
“Mom?”
“Hi, honey,” she said. “So, did you hear the
wonderful news?”
“What news?”
“Danielle,” she said in a high-pitched voice, “is
pregnant!”
I should have said, “That’s so exciting!” or “Oh,
the miracle of life!” but I just shrugged and said, “Again?” This
was Danielle’s third child. But as far as I was concerned, it might
as well have been her thirteenth.
“Yes, she’s due in November!” Mom cried. “Isn’t it
wonderful?”
That’s what she said, but what I heard was: “Why
can’t you be more like your sister?” I sensed a Danielle lovefest
beginning and quickly changed the subject. “So,” I said, “Bee said
you called. Was this what you wanted to tell me?”
“Well, yes, but dear, I heard about Joel. I’m
worried about you. How are you doing?”
I ignored her question. “How did you hear
about it?”
“Oh, honey,” she said, “that’s not
important.”
“It’s important, Mom.”
“Well,” she said, pausing for a moment. “Your
sister told me, dear.”
“How did Danielle know? I haven’t talked to her in
months.”
“Well, I think she read that you weren’t married
anymore on the World Wide Web,” she said. My mother was the only
person, I think on earth, who referred to the Internet that way,
yet it was endearing somehow. She also called Google
“Goggle.”
I remembered my Facebook page. Yes, I had adjusted
my relationship status in my profile shortly after Joel had done
the same—but there was something wrong, on so many levels, about
your own mother hearing about your divorce via Facebook. “I didn’t
know that Danielle even used Facebook,” I said, still a little
stunned.
“Hmm,” she said. “Well maybe she Goggled
it.”
I sighed. “The point is, Danielle knows. You know.
Everybody knows. I was going to tell you, Mom, eventually. But I
guess I just wasn’t ready to face my family yet. I didn’t want to
worry you and Dad.”
“Oh, honey,” she said, “I’m so sorry that you’re
going through this. Are you holding up OK?”
“I’m doing all right.”
“Good,” she said. “Honey, was there another woman
involved?” This is what everyone wanted to know when they learned
of my marriage’s demise, so I didn’t fault my mother for her
curiosity.
“No,” I said. “I mean yes, but no, I don’t want to
talk about it.”
I looked down at the phone cord, which I’d somehow
wrapped so tightly around my finger that it was cutting off the
circulation. I didn’t know if I was angry about my mother’s obvious
prying or angry at Joel for precipitating the reason for the
prying. But mostly my finger hurt, so I focused on that, as Mom
chattered on. I could see her there, standing in the kitchen in
front of that horrible old electric stove—avocado green with the
oven mitts hanging from the handle, knitted in rainbow-colored
yarn.
“I worry about you all alone, dear. You don’t want
to end up like your aunt.”
“Mom,” I said a little more sternly than I had
anticipated. “I don’t want to talk about this now.”
“OK, honey,” she said, sounding a bit wounded. “I’m
just trying to help.” And I suppose in her own way she was.
“I know,” I replied. “So, how did you know I was
here?”
“I called your apartment. Annabelle said you were
staying with your aunt.”
Mom never called Bee by her first name. She always
referred to her as “your aunt.”
“Yeah,” I said. “She invited me to stay for the
month. I’ll be here through the end of March.”
“A whole month?” She sounded annoyed, or
vaguely jealous. I knew she wanted to be here too, but she was too
prideful to admit it. She hadn’t been to the island since Danielle
and I left for college, which is when our summer visits
ceased.
“Oh, Mom?” I said. “I wanted to ask you about
something.”
“What?”
“Well, it’s something Bee and I were talking
about,” I said, pausing.
“What is it, honey?”
I took a deep breath, unsure of the emotional land
mines that might lie ahead. “She told me that there was a time,
many years ago, when you were working on some sort of project—one
that changed your relationship with her.”
There was silence on the other end of the line, so
I continued. “She said she told you the truth about Grandma. I wish
I knew what she meant by that.”
I could no longer hear her fiddling around with her
spatula and kitchen pans in the background. There was only
silence.
“Mom? Are you still there?”
“Emily,” she finally said, “what has your aunt told
you?”
“Nothing,” I replied. “She wouldn’t tell me
anything, just that you decided not to be a part of the family
anymore. She said it changed things between the two of you.” I
looked over my shoulder to be sure Bee wasn’t hovering. She wasn’t.
“She said you stopped coming to visit. Why, Mom? What
happened?”
“Well,” she said, “I’m afraid I can’t recall the
details. And if Bee tries to tell you anything, I wouldn’t believe
it. She’s getting up there in age and her memory is
fleeting.”
“Mom, it’s just that—”
“Emily, I’m sorry, I don’t want to discuss
this.”
“Mom, I deserve to know the story.”
“You don’t,” she said simply.
I frowned.
“Honey, don’t be angry,” she said, detecting my
mood as only mothers can do.
“I’m not angry.”
“It’s in the past, dear,” she continued. “Some
things are better left that way.”
I could tell by the tone of her voice that the door
was closed. Bee, Evelyn, and now my mother had made it very clear
that these secrets were not for the taking. If I wanted to know
their stories, I would have to work for them.
Later, after Bee’s nap, she mixed a gin and tonic
for herself, and offered me one. “Sure,” I said, leaning back on
the couch and enjoying the punch of the first sip, which always
tastes like pine needles.
“Did you ever call your mother back?” Bee
asked.
“She called here again about an hour ago,” I said.
“She wanted to tell me that Danielle is having another baby.”
“Another one?”
I loved that Bee’s response was similar to mine.
Perhaps it was just that we were childless, but I think we both
agreed that anyone who willingly has more than two children is
clinically insane.
I took another sip of my drink and buried my head
deeper into the blue velvet couch cushion. “Bee, do you think Joel
left me because I never cooked for him?”
“Nonsense, dear,” she said, setting her crossword
puzzle down.
I tucked my knees into my body and clasped my arms
around them tightly. “My mother is so—”
“She’s had a more difficult life than you know,
Emily,” she interrupted.
The statement took me by surprise. “What do you
mean?”
Bee stood up. “Here, let me show you
something.”
She began walking down the hallway, so I followed
her. Two doors past the guest room where I was staying, she stopped
in front of another door. She reached for the knob and then her
pocket, from which she pulled out a key ring and selected a small
gold key that she then inserted into the door.
The door creaked open and we stepped inside. I
batted away a cobweb from my face. “Sorry,” she said. “I haven’t
been in this room in a very long time.”
Next to the small white dresser there was a child’s
table, set with two pink teacups on saucers, and a Victorian
dollhouse. I bent down to pick up a porcelain doll from the floor.
Her face was smudged and her brown hair matted. She looked as if
some little girl had left her there, just like that.
“What is this room?” I asked, confused.
“It was your mother’s room,” she said. “She lived
here with me for a time when she was very young.”
“Why? What about Grandpa and Grandma?”
“Something happened,” she said simply. “Your
grandparents . . . they were going through a rough patch, so I
offered to have your mother come stay with me for a while.” Bee
sighed, smiling to herself. “She was such a dear little girl. We
had the most fun together, your mother and I.”
As Bee opened the closet door, I thought of my
grandparents and wondered what could have precipitated them leaving
their child with her. She reached to the top shelf and retrieved a
shoe box. She blew a layer of dust off the lid before handing it to
me. “Here,” she said. “Maybe this will give some insight into your
mother.”
Bee pulled the keys from her pocket and they
jingled in her hands, which was my cue to walk back to the
hallway.
“Thank you,” I said, looking at the box in
anticipation.
Bee turned toward her room and said, “I’ll see you
at dinner.”
In my room, I set the box down on the bed. What
could be inside? Would my mother approve of me riffling through her
things?
I lifted the lid and peered inside. On top were
three dried roses tied together with a shiny red ribbon. When I
picked up the little bunch, three delicate petals fell to the
floor. Next I pulled out a child’s picture book; a long gray
feather, which looked like a seagull’s; a barrette; a pair of tiny
white gloves; and a small, leather-bound volume. It wasn’t until I
moved it into the light that I could see what it was: a scrapbook.
I opened it and waves of emotion flooded my body. On the first page
the word Mother was handwritten, surrounded by tiny flowers.
I blinked hard, and turned the page to find a collage of sorts.
There were clippings from magazines, of women with perfectly
coiffed hair and pressed dresses. There were dried flowers and
black-and-white photos—one of a baby, and one of a house, simple
and small with an old car parked in front. What is this? Why did
my mother create this scrapbook, and why did Bee want me to see
it?
Bee’s silence at dinner told me that she didn’t
want to discuss the mysterious room or the box of hidden treasures,
so I didn’t press my luck. I cleared the dishes, and just before I
started to load them into the dishwasher, the phone rang.
“Get that, dear, please,” Bee said from the
hallway. “I’m afraid it’s lights out for me. I’m exhausted.”
“Sure,” I said, picking it up. “Hello?”
“Emily?”
“Yes?”
“It’s Evelyn.”
“Oh, hi, Ev—”
“No, no, dear, Bee must not know that I’m calling
you.”
“OK,” I said cautiously. “What’s going on?”
“I need your help,” she said.
“With what? Are you OK?”
“Yes—well, no. I need to speak to you. In
person.”
I paused for a second. “Do you want me to come
over?”
“Yes,” she said. “I’m just up the beach, honey. The
big house with the wisteria arbor in front, about six houses past
Henry’s. It’s a bit chilly out, dear, so wear a coat.”
I didn’t tell Bee I was going out, a decision I
regretted once I got to the beach. The tide was coming in, which
made the water seem menacing, as though it was stalking me,
extending its frothy hooks onto the shore and making eyes at my
feet. I imagined that bats were flying overhead, even though they
were probably just seagulls nestling into the treetops for the
night. I zipped my coat up and told myself to look straight ahead.
I passed Henry’s house, which was dark, then started counting.
One, two, three. The homes looked cozy nestled up against
the hillside. Four, five, six, seven. I wondered if I had
misinterpreted her directions. Eight, nine. I looked up and
saw Evelyn’s home in the distance. The wisteria looked bare and
vulnerable clinging to the arbor, but somewhere deep inside its
branches was the promise of spring, and when I looked closely, I
saw a few pale green shoots emerging from the trunk. I turned to
walk up the steps, and when I did, I saw Evelyn on the front porch,
sitting in a rocking chair. I could see that she was in a
nightgown. Her hair, usually carefully styled, looked matted and
messy.
“Thank you for coming,” she said, reaching for my
hand.
“Of course,” I replied, squeezing in
response.
Her face looked ashen. She appeared weaker, more
frail than she had only days ago.
“It’s the cancer,” I said. “You’re—”
“Isn’t it a beautiful night?”
I nodded.
She pointed to a rocking chair next to hers, and I
sat down.
“I’m going to miss this island.” Her voice was
distant, far away.
I swallowed hard.
She looked out to the shore. “Did you know that
your aunt Bee and I used to go skinny-dipping out there? We’d strip
right down and just dive in.” She turned to me. “You should try it.
There’s absolutely nothing like feeling Old Man Puget Sound on
every inch of your skin.”
Laughing would have been the appropriate response,
but I couldn’t summon anything but a half smile. What do you say to
someone who is reminiscing about her life for perhaps the final
time?
“You will take care of her, won’t you,
Emily?”
“Of course I will,” I said, looking into her eyes.
“I promise.”
She nodded. “Bee isn’t an easy person to get along
with, you know. But she’s as much my home as this island is.”
I could see tears welling up in her eyes. “She told
me, after my husband died, that I wasn’t alone—that I’d never be
alone. And as long as Bee has been in my life, that has been
true.”
I nodded.
“It’s not right that I’m leaving her. It’s just not
right.” She stood up and walked to the edge of the porch, throwing
her feeble fists into the cold air as if threatening the island,
challenging it.
I jumped up and put my arms around her, and she
turned and buried her face in my shoulder.
She wiped away the tears on her cheek and sat down.
“I can hardly bear the thought of leaving her.”
I leaned in so she could see my face better. “I
will look out for her. Don’t you worry.”
She sighed. “Good. Will you come in for a moment? I
have something to give you.”
I nodded, following Evelyn through the front door.
The warm air inside felt good on my face.
Evelyn’s living room looked like the quarters of a
sick woman, as it should have. Magazines, books, mail, and piles of
paper covered the coffee table alongside a collection of water
glasses and dishes encrusted with old food.
“I’m sorry about all of this,” she said
quietly.
I shook my head. “Please, don’t apologize.”
“I think I left it in the other room,” she said.
“It will be just be a minute.”
I wasn’t sure what it was, but Evelyn looked
as though her life depended on finding it.
“That’s fine,” I said. “I’ll wait here.”
I knew I didn’t have much time, so I worked fast,
first collecting the dirty dishes and loading them into the
dishwasher. I threw away the tissues that had been piled high in a
heap, and after I’d moved a mound of mail to the kitchen table to
be sorted, I gave the table a quick wipe down. There. Then I
sat down on the couch near the window. My eyes found their way to a
nearby bookcase, where shelves displayed trinkets and framed
photos.
Next to a glass vase filled with sand dollars,
there was a photo of Evelyn on her wedding day—so beautiful and
elegant with her tall husband standing by her side. I wondered what
he was like, and why they’d never had children. There were photos
of dogs—a Jack Russell and a dachshund that looked as if he had
been fed pie for dinner every night. But then I saw a portrait of a
woman, and I recognized her instantly. She was the same woman in
the photo at Henry’s house. In this shot she was smiling, standing
next to someone else. I squinted to get a better look. She was
standing next to Bee.
I heard a sound behind me, and turned to see
Evelyn. I hadn’t heard her enter the room.
“Who is she, Evelyn?” I asked, pointing to the
photo. “I saw her in a photo at Henry’s house. Bee wouldn’t tell
me. I have to know.”
Evelyn sat down, clasping something in her hands.
“She was once Henry’s fiancée,” she said.
“And your friend?”
“Yes,” she said. “A very dear friend.”
She sighed and walked toward me, and when she did,
I could see the deep fatigue—the finality—in her face.
“Here,” she said, handing me an envelope that had
been carefully folded in half. “I want you to give this to
Bee.”
“Now?”
“No,” she said. “When I’m gone.”
I nodded. “Of course.”
“Thank you, Emily,” she said, squeezing my hand
again. “You are special, you know. All of this”—she paused and
swept her hand out toward the sound—“all of this was meant to be.
You were meant to be here. You have such purpose, my dear. Such
purpose.”
I hugged her, wondering if it might be the last
time.
“Are you going to go through with it?” Rose asked
me when I returned to the table and told her the two paths Elliot’s
letter had laid out: Meet tonight and start a new life together or
say good-bye to him forever.
We both knew that the stakes were high. I clutched
the envelope as if it were his hand. I could see the whites of my
knuckles, and my nails were digging into my palm. It was as if I
had somehow believed that if I let go, I’d let go of Elliot, and I
couldn’t bear to see him go. Not again. Not another time.
“I don’t know,” I said, and I truly didn’t. How
would I sneak out? The baby didn’t fall asleep until after eight,
and how would I explain to Bobby that I needed to leave? Stores
weren’t open that late, so I couldn’t lie and say I needed eggs or
milk. Plus, even if I found a way, what would I say when I got
there, when I faced Elliot? And what would I do? This is the part
that scared me most. What in the dear Lord’s name would I do?
“Esther,” Rose said in a practical voice. “I want
you to know that I will support you in whatever choice you
make.”
Bobby caught an early ferry home and surprised me
at five with a bouquet of daffodils from the Pike Place Market. “I
thought you’d like these,” he said. “I remembered that daffodils
were your favorite.”
I didn’t tell him that he’d gotten it wrong, that
my favorite flowers were tulips. Instead, I hugged him and thanked
him for the gift.
“I bet you’ve forgotten,” he said, “being so busy
with the baby and all, but I haven’t.”
I gave him a puzzled look. It wasn’t my birthday,
or Mother’s Day.
“Forgotten what, Bobby?”
“Happy anniversary!” he said. “Well, I mean, happy
anniversary a day early. I got so excited I couldn’t wait. I’m
taking you out tonight so we can celebrate properly.”
Of all the nights to surprise me, why did it have
to be this one? Fate, the wretched witch that she was, had just
slapped me with her cruel, cold hand.
“But what about the baby?” I said, eager to find a
hole in his plan. She reached her little hand up to my necklace,
grabbed the starfish on the chain, and cooed. I rewarded her with a
kiss on the cheek.
“I’ve already made arrangements,” he said. “My
mother is coming over.”
The timing couldn’t have been worse. Elliot would
be waiting for me tonight, and I would be with Bobby.
Bobby took me to the Crow’s Nest, a beautiful
restaurant perched high on a cliff overlooking the sound. Elliot
and I had dined there many times, but this was a first for Bobby
and me. You see, Bobby was frugal. Spending money on dinners out
just wasn’t something he did. So when he held open the big knotty
pine doors to the restaurant, there was an air of pride in his
swagger. “Only the best for my Esther,” he said as we made our way
inside.
We were seated at six, but the food didn’t arrive
until at least seven thirty. No matter how fast I tapped my foot,
how tightly I clenched my teeth, or how many times I glanced at the
clock, the evening just inched along.
Bobby didn’t notice my mood. He was too busy
questioning the waiter: “Is the duck cooked in a wine sauce?” “Are
the oysters fresh?” “Do the potatoes come mashed?” “Could we
substitute salad for soup?”
I tapped my finger against my leg under the table,
trying to hide my frustration, and out of the corner of my eye, I
saw someone looking my way. I glanced up at the bar, where Billy,
my old high school boyfriend, was seated, holding a drink and
looking a little bleary-eyed. Billy had proposed to me just before
Homecoming our junior year. He gave me a ring, and I said yes—well,
actually, I said maybe. I loved Billy, and we had grand times
together, but that was before Elliot came into my life. Frances
always said that Billy never got over me, and there was a look in
his eyes that evening that told me she was right. Yet he never
hated me for my decision—not for a minute. That night, I even got
the feeling that he felt sorry for me.
He waved from the bar, where he was sitting with
another man. They were both in suits. I waved back.
“Who’s that?” Bobby asked.
“Just Billy,” I said, gesturing toward the
bar.
Bobby turned to smile at him too, a gesture with a
singular purpose: to underscore the fact that I was his. I
sometimes got the feeling that Bobby was less in love with me than
he was with the idea of me. I was his trophy, one he liked to
polish up and take out and parade around every now and then.
“Esther,” he said after our dinner arrived, and
after he’d downed two glasses of beer, “I was just thinking that
maybe”—he lowered his voice—“maybe we should try for another
baby.”
I spilled my water in my lap just as I heard the
word “baby.”
“What do you say, sweetheart?”
“Well, isn’t it a little too soon?” I said. “I
mean, she’s just four months old.”
“Give it some thought,” he said.
I nodded.
We finished our dinner, and Bobby suggested
dessert. “I’ve been feeling like baklava ever since Janice brought
some over to my office last week,” he said.
“Why was she at your office?”
“She had an appointment on the floor below,” he
said, wiping a few breadcrumbs from his lips. “She stopped in to
say hello.” He picked up the menu and lowered his glasses on his
nose. “Do you feel like dessert, sweetheart?”
No, I didn’t feel like anything except leaving. I
looked at my watch: It was nearly nine thirty. Elliot hadn’t
specified a time, but it was getting late, almost too late. If I
was going to go, I needed to go soon.
“No,” I said. “I’m actually feeling a bit tired. I
think we should call it a night.”
Bobby paid the bill, and as we left, I deliberately
dropped my purse beneath our table. It would be my alibi.
Once at home, Bobby thanked his mother and walked
her to the door, while I checked on the baby, sound asleep in her
crib. I felt the passage of every minute, every second. Then, Bobby
undressed and got into bed, waiting for me to follow.
“Rats,” I said. “I left my purse at the
restaurant.”
“Oh no,” he said, standing up and reaching for the
trousers he’d laid over the chair. “I’ll go get it for you.”
“No, no,” I said. “You have to get up so early for
work in the morning. I’ll go. Besides, I forgot to drop something
by Frances’s house, and I can do that on the way back.” Brilliant,
I thought, as my heart raced. I’d just bought myself another thirty
minutes.
“But, Esther, it’s so late,” he said. “A woman
shouldn’t be out on the road at this hour.”
Bobby believed his lot in life was to protect me,
and that my lot in life was to be protected.
“I’ll be fine,” I said.
He yawned and climbed back into bed. “OK,” he said,
“but don’t be long. Wake me when you get home so I know you’re all
right.”
“I will,” I said.
But I knew I wouldn’t. I would be gone much too
long for that, and as I closed the door to the house, I could hear
the sound of his snoring down the hall.
I drove the Buick fast that night, too fast, past
the restaurant, past Frances’s house, and down the long road that
led to Elliot’s. I looked in my rearview mirror a few times, just
to be sure no one was following me.
It was after eleven when I parked my car on the
street in front of Elliot’s property. I smoothed my wool twinset
and ran my fingers through my hair, chastising myself for not
brushing it before I left, or even looking in a mirror, for that
matter. The trail that led down to the beach was dark, but I had
memorized every step.
The full moon lit up the sky and beamed down on the
beach I knew so well—the beach where we had made love for the first
time, and the last. I looked around, expecting to see him sitting
on a log or lying on a blanket in the sand, the way he used to wait
for me so many years ago. He’d hand me a bit of beach glass or some
beautiful shell he’d found to add to my collection and we’d fall
into each other’s arms.
But he wasn’t there. I was too late.
The house lights were dark. Could he have already
gone? I gasped at the thought. Our timing had always been dreadful,
so why did I expect anything different on this night? Still, the
pain surged out of my heart like an electric shock. I turned back
to the trail, and I would have raced up the embankment to my car
had it not been for the glimmer of light purple petals underfoot. I
shook my head. Wood violets? I hadn’t seen them since I was a girl,
when they appeared one summer in my grandmother’s garden. I’d never
noticed them on Elliot’s property. What were they doing here?
Many on the island, me included, believed that
these flowers had mystical powers, that they could heal wounds of
the heart and the body, mend rifts in friendships, even bring about
good fortune. I knelt down and ran my hand along the carpet of
dusty purple nestled into pale green leaves.
I stood up suddenly when I heard distant music
floating through the night air. I recognized the melody in an
instant; Billie Holiday’s voice was unmistakable. “Body and
Soul.”
My eyes searched the front porch for Elliot, but
all I could make out was a fishing pole angled against the railing.
The scene was as I remembered, a vision frozen in time.
And then, out of nowhere, arms wrapped around me. I
didn’t flinch or pull away; I knew his touch, I knew the smell of
his skin, I knew the pattern of his breathing—I knew it all by
heart.
“You came,” he said into my neck.
“How could I not?” I said, turning around to face
him.
“Have you thought of me?”
“Every second of every day,” I said, allowing
myself to fall into his arms completely. His pull on me was
magnetic.
He kissed me with the same fire, the same ferocity
that he had years ago. I knew, as he did, that whatever was between
us was still there, just as strong as it ever was. Just as
real.
I heard a rustling sound coming from the trees near
the trail that wound up to the road. But I didn’t stop to look or
worry—not tonight, not when Elliot was taking my hand and leading
me up to the house.
We walked through the door and into the living
room. He pushed the chair to the side, and then the coffee table,
and laid me on the bearskin rug by the fireplace.
As he unbuttoned my dress, I didn’t think about
Bobby, the man I should have been with on this day of my wedding
anniversary, or my baby asleep in her crib, or the lie I’d told to
get there. I just felt the warmth of the fire on my face, and
Elliot’s breath on my skin. It was all I wanted to feel.
March 8
I tried not to overthink Jack’s words. But
didn’t he say he’d be back from Seattle today? I stared at the
clock a dozen times before breakfast that next morning, wondering.
I thought about the way Elliot had kissed Esther. I wanted to be
loved with the same passion, the same fire that Elliot seemed to
impart so naturally, so perfectly.
The phone didn’t ring at eleven a.m.; nor did it
ring at noon. Why isn’t he calling?
I went for a beach walk at two, but the only sound
my phone made was a chime alerting me to a text message from
Annabelle.
By five, Bee began mixing a drink and asked if I
wanted one too. I set the phone down and said, “Make it a
double.”
After about an hour, Bee was back in the lanai,
working her magic with the liquor bottles, but this time she didn’t
offer me another. “Get dressed, dear,” she said. “Greg will be here
soon.”
I had almost forgotten about the plans I’d made
with Greg. I walked to my room quickly to dress, choosing a
long-sleeved blue knit dress with a deep V neckline. I liked the
way it felt against my skin.
Greg arrived at seven, just when he’d said he
would, looking freshly scrubbed in a pair of clean jeans and a
crisp white shirt. His golden skin almost glowed against it.
“Hi,” he said as I walked out to his car. “Ready
for Chinese?”
“Sounds wonderful,” I said. “I’m starving.”
We drove into town, past the Town and Country
Market, and parked where several restaurants and cafés dotted Main
Street. It was a warm evening, at least by Bainbridge Island
standards, and a handful of people were sitting outside, eating
alfresco.
Inside the restaurant, Greg gestured to the
hostess. She looked like someone I had known in high school: Mindy
Almvig, with her dangly earrings and spiral perm. “I called in an
order about forty-five minutes ago.”
“Yes,” she said, smacking her gum. “It’s ready.”
The place smelled delicious, of Szechuan sauce and spring rolls
fresh from the fryer.
He paid, and then picked up the rather enormous
paper bag. We climbed into the car, and I noticed a little
restaurant nearby. Diners were seated outdoors under heated lamps.
And that’s when I saw Jack.
He was with a woman, that much was clear. I
couldn’t see her face from my vantage point, just her legs,
which were barely covered by the short black dress that clung to
her thighs. They were drinking wine and laughing, and as Jack
turned toward the direction of our car, I pulled the sun visor down
and turned in the other direction.
Who is she? Why didn’t he mention that he’s
involved with someone else? Maybe she’s just a friend. But if she
was a friend, why didn’t he say something about her?
Greg drove for about a mile before he pulled up
into a gravelcovered driveway. His home, a yellow farmhouse,
complete with a white picket fence, frankly shocked me. Greg
with a picket fence?
“Here we are,” he said.
“I’m so surprised,” I said.
“You’re surprised?”
“Yeah, I mean, it’s so cute. It’s so Martha
Stewart meets Old Mac-Donald. I guess I never imagined you living
somewhere like this.”
He smiled and pulled the keys out of the ignition.
I saw the edge of a tattoo I’d never noticed peeking through his
sleeve.
The house’s interior was much too decorated for
Greg to have accomplished it himself. Everything matched—the
pillows and the sofa, the rug and the wall color. There was a
wreath on the front door. A wreath. This was the work of a
woman. What man chooses an ottoman covered in green toile
fabric?
Yet, upon closer examination, I could see that if
there had been a woman in his life, she hadn’t been around for a
while. There were dishes piled in the sink. The counters hadn’t
been wiped down, and there was a basket of laundry at the foot of
the stairs.
“So, this is it,” Greg said, a little embarrassed,
as if my being there had allowed him to see the place in a new
light.
The bathroom door was open, so I took a quick peek:
The toilet seat was up and there was a roll of toilet paper on the
floor, not in the dispenser where it belonged. Here was the home of
a single man.
“There,” Greg said, placing two napkins, plates,
and sets of chopsticks on the coffee table next to the wine he’d
poured for us. “Dinner is served.”
It wasn’t exactly dinner at Jack’s house—no linen
napkins or gourmet cuisine—but it was Greg-style, and after the
scene in town, it made me appreciate Greg a little more than I had.
At least he was being real.
“How long have you lived here?” I was eager to
satisfy my curiosity regarding the female in his life—or his former
life.
He looked up at the ceiling as if trying to
calculate the years. “About nine years,” he said.
“Wow, that long? Have you always lived here
alone?”
“No, I had a roommate for several years,” he said.
He didn’t offer whether the roommate had been male or female.
“Well, you’ve really done a nice job with the
place. It’s lovely.”
Greg helped himself to more chow mein. “I just keep
thinking about running into you at the market the other day, out of
the blue like that.”
I swallowed a bite of dim sum. “Me too. Honestly,
you were the last person I expected to see that morning.”
He turned to face me. “I always hoped we’d see each
other again.”
“Me too,” I said. “I used to play this little game
with myself. Whenever I’d come across one of those Magic 8 Balls,
I’d shake it and ask, ‘Will I ever kiss Greg again?’ And you know
what? I never got a no. Not even once.”
Greg looked at me with a teasing face. “And what
else do you consult your Magic 8 Ball about?”
I grinned and sank my teeth into another spring
roll, deciding not to tell him that I’d actually consulted the 8
Ball at Annabelle’s apartment the day before my divorce went
through.
We finished our dinner and Greg kept my wineglass
filled so efficiently, I lost track of the number of glasses I’d
drunk.
It was dark outside, but under the light from the
moon I could make out a patch of flowers through the French doors
in the back. “I want to see your garden,” I said. “Can you give me
a tour?”
“Sure,” Greg said. “It’s my little piece of
heaven.”
I felt a bit woozy as I stood up, and Greg must
have noticed because he held my arm as we walked out onto the slate
stone patio. “Over there, those are the hydrangeas,” he said,
pointing to the far left corner of the yard. “And here is the
cutting garden. This year I have daylilies, peonies, and dahlias
coming up.”
But I wasn’t looking at the cutting garden. Just
below the kitchen window stood a row of tulips, white with striking
red tips. They were brilliant nestled against the house’s yellow
siding, and I walked over to have a closer look. I’d never seen
them before, of course, but I felt as if I had. They were identical
to the ones Elliot had given Esther in the diary.
“These tulips,” I said, a little astonished,
“they’re beautiful.”
“Aren’t they?” Greg said in agreement.
“Did you plant them?” I asked, almost accusingly,
as though I expected him to have Elliot upstairs, bound and gagged
in a bedroom closet.
“I wish I could take credit,” he said. “But they’re
volunteers. They were here when I bought the house. They’ve been
multiplying over the years. There must be three dozen now.”
I reminded myself that the diary I was reading was
probably only a story, not reality. Yet I couldn’t help but wonder
if Elliot and Esther had once walked this island, perhaps in this
very spot.
“Who did you buy the house from?” I asked.
“He paused to think. “I can’t remember her name,”
he said. “She was an elderly woman whose kids were moving her into
a retirement community.”
“Where? Here on the island?”
“No, I think it was Seattle.”
I nodded and looked back down at the tulips. They
were breathtaking.
“Hey,” Greg said, “why do you want to know?”
“I don’t know,” I said, reaching down to pick one
of the flowers. “I guess I just have a thing for stories of the
past.”
Greg looked at me in the way that used to make me
wild. “I wish our story had a different ending.”
I felt his breath on my skin, inviting, beckoning,
but there was that voice again, the cautionary voice. “Let’s open
our fortune cookies,” I said, breaking free from his gaze.
“Nah, I hate fortune cookies.”
“Come on,” I said, reaching for his hand.
Once we were seated on the couch, I handed one
cookie to Greg and kept one for myself. “Open it.”
He cracked his open and read the tiny piece of
paper in his hands: “ ‘You will find the answer to what you are
searching for.’ See?” he said. “Totally meaningless. You could read
into that a million different ways.”
I opened mine and stared blankly at the words: “
‘You will find true love in the present, by looking to the past.’
”
“What does yours say?” Greg asked.
“Nothing significant,” I said. “You’re right. It’s
nonsense.” I carefully tucked the scrap of paper into my
pocket.
Greg inched closer. “What if it isn’t nonsense?
What if it means something? About us?”
I remained motionless as his hands caressed my
face, then I closed my eyes as they traveled down my neck and
shoulders to my waist.
“No,” I said, opening my eyes and pulling away from
his arms. “I can’t, Greg. I’m so sorry.”
“What’s wrong?” He looked wounded.
“I don’t know,” I said, disoriented. “But I think
my heart is elsewhere.” What I didn’t say was that “elsewhere”
meant, plain and simple, Jack.
“It’s OK,” he said, looking at his feet.
“I guess I better go,” I said awkwardly as he stood
up to get his keys. Before I got into the car, I ran back to the
garden and retrieved the tulip I’d picked.
Greg drove me back to Bee’s and before I got out
of the car he said, “He’s a lucky guy, whoever he is.”
“Who’s a lucky guy?”
“The guy who ends up with you.”