Chapter 2

I open my eyes, and for a moment I have no idea where I am, and the void is blissfully frightening. Then I hear the sound of the lake outside, and the scene comes into focus.

I’m on a couch draped with a stark white slipcover. My sandals are still strapped to my feet, and my large black suitcase is beside the door. I gaze around the houseboat as if seeing it for the first time. The clock says it’s quarter till six, nearly nine on the East Coast. This is a fact I find shocking, because I haven’t slept this late in years.

I stand up and walk to the little kitchen. Running my hand along the tile countertop, I find a brass key resting on top of a note written on Wentworth Real Estate letterhead. “Welcome to Seattle!” it reads. “Here’s an extra key. If you need anything, give us a call.” I tuck the key in my pocket and notice a coffeemaker. I pour fresh water into the tank and toss in a packet of pre-ground Starbucks Breakfast Blend, listening as the machine hisses and spurts.

I peek inside a cabinet and open a few drawers, happy to find all fully stocked. A set of well-worn pots and pans hang from hooks over the stove. Many meals have been cooked here. Wineglasses line an open shelf, champagne glasses on the next. I wonder about the people who have pressed their lips against them over the years, and I can almost hear them blowing noisemakers and shouting, “Happy New Year!” before huddling on the dock to sing “Auld Lang Syne.” Were they happy here? Will I be?

I reach for a mug on the shelf and fill it with coffee. I hold it up to my nose, then take a sip before proceeding down the hall, where a daybed is wedged against the wall facing a white bookshelf. The shelf is stocked with castaways from renters of years past. Maeve Binchy. Stephen King. I smile when I see a copy of The Ultimate Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. It used to be James’s favorite.

I close my eyes tightly, then proceed around the corner, where I pass a pint-size stacked washer and dryer set, a linen closet, and a small bathroom. A generous skylight presides over the shower, with a tiny square window that looks out from the stall to the dock and the lake beyond. I can see a young family motoring past in a small boat. There’s a little girl in a pink life jacket and an older boy on the stern with his father. I look away.

I walk back down the hall, passing a framed painting of an old sailboat. I squint and see the name Catalina painted in blue on her side. My mind turns to the island off the coast of San Diego. Sunrise sent me there nine years ago, the year after the wedding. I remember watching seabirds swooping into the cove. James came with me. We had panini at a little café on the beach. I take a deep breath, turning back to the painting. The boat’s two sails puff out proudly over its wooden hull. The blue water below is tropical. Perhaps this is the Bahamas, or somewhere else in the Caribbean. Where is she sailing, this ship called Catalina? She looks unbounded, full of life, pushing ahead with no anchor, no concerns to hold her back. I reach out and touch my finger to the canvas. I know it’s bad etiquette, but I can’t help it. It’s as if the painting is magnetic. I feel the lines, the texture of the artist’s brush.

Behind me are the stairs—well, more like a ship’s ladder—that lead to the loft above. I duck my head and climb up until I reach the upper floor, where the fir plank floors creak beneath my feet. There’s a double bed—its crisp, white linens look freshly laundered and pressed—and an old dresser with brass door pulls shaped like lion heads. Above the wooden headboard is the porthole. It’s been propped open, and I feel the cool morning air on my face. I listen as a pair of Canadian geese fly by, alternating squawks as they skim the water with their feet.

I carefully climb down the ladder to the living room. Outside the French doors, a sailboat bobs on the water. The rental office didn’t say anything about a sailboat. Its hull is wooden, stained the color of honey. It looks old but well kept. I unlock the door and walk out to the dock. I notice a yellow Lab snoozing outside a houseboat on the slip to my left. By now in New York, I’d already be sitting at my desk, having my second espresso and editing layouts. I would do that until one, until someone pried me away for lunch, which I would eat, reluctantly, before rushing back. I’d stay past nine, leaving only when the cleaning crew came in. I hated going home.

I sit down on a white Adirondack chair that looks out to the west side of Lake Union, where boats and floating homes nestle against the water’s edge. I see a green, grassy hill on my right—Gas Works Park, I think, remembering the Seattle guidebook I thumbed through on the plane—covered with rusted-out industrial relics that look almost sculptural. I watch the boats glide by for the next hour. Violin music lilts through the air, and I can’t make out the source. I remember something James always said, that sound is deceiving on the water, that sometimes you can hear a whisper from a half mile away. I listen for a moment, transfixed by the melody, until the music stops. I hear footsteps behind me, and then a voice.

“Henrietta!” It’s a man, on the dock. “Henrietta!” He sounds concerned, and for a moment, I wonder if someone is in trouble. Cautiously, I walk to the end of the deck, and I peer down the dock. I see his back first. He’s tall and in good shape for his age. Judging by the weathered look in his eyes, I’d peg him at a young sixty. His gray hair is parted at the side and falls over his forehead the way Ernest Hemingway’s did in the Key West photos, charming in a sort of boyish, brash way. “Oh,” he says, noticing me suddenly. “You must be the new neighbor.” He smiles warmly. “I’m sorry about the boat,” he continues, pointing to the sailboat moored outside my deck. “I meant to move that over to my slip before you arrived. I’ve just got to get the contractor out to fix the dock, and, well—”

“It’s OK,” I reply, taking a few steps closer.

“I’m Jim,” he says.

“Ada,” I say, taking his hand. “I arrived last night. I’m the new renter.”

He smiles. “Well then, let me be the first to welcome you to Boat Street.”

I give him a confused look.

“Oh, it’s what we call our dock,” he says.

I nod. “Oh, I’m sorry. You were looking for someone? Henrietta?”

His grin morphs into a frown, as if he’s remembering an upsetting fact. “Oh, yeah,” he says, shaking his head. “Haines, where are you, old boy?” I watch, perplexed, as he looks behind him. A moment later a mallard duck peers cautiously around the side of the houseboat ahead. He waddles toward Jim, stopping briefly to look up at me. “You see, Haines here is married to a fine duck named Henrietta. But they fight a lot, and they had quite a donnybrook last night.” He speaks without sarcasm, as if the love lives of ducks are quite a serious matter. I’m not sure if I should smile, but it’s impossible not to.

“Do you think she’s run away?” I ask, giving my best effort to keep a straight face.

“Oh no,” Jim says. “She’s just off sulking somewhere. Last week I found her in a kayak. She’d been gone for two days, and Haines was beside himself.” He kneels down beside the duck, who fluffs his feathers and lets out a little quack. “Mallards mate for life, you know.”

“I’ve heard,” I say. “It’s really sweet.”

“Anyway,” he says, standing, “we’re all hoping for ducklings this spring.”

I smile. “Ducklings?”

He nods. “They’ve been going together for five years, and you’d think they’d consummate this marriage at some point.”

“Maybe this is their year,” I say.

“Maybe. Anyway, if you see Henrietta, let me know. I live four houseboats down.”

“Oh,” I say, remembering the garden I passed the night before. “You must have potted all those flowers—they’re so pretty.”

“No,” he says quickly. “That’s my mother’s garden. My parents live next door. I grew up here on the dock.” He looks thoughtful for a moment. “I stayed away for a long time, but when the house next door came up for sale last year, I decided to buy it.” He looks down the dock as if seeing it through the lens of the past, exactly how it appeared fifty years ago. “When I left this dock, I swore I’d never return. But I guess every eighteen-year-old thinks that, right?” He shrugs. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that time mellows things.” He eyes the potted plants in front of his parents’ houseboat. “No matter what, home is home. It’s where you belong.”

I nod hesitantly, thinking of my own home. I haven’t been back to Kansas City in years. The reason pains me, and I let my mind extinguish the thought like a flickering ember doused with water. And New York City—no, it isn’t home anymore either. I’m not anchored to any place.

“Anyway, I needed to come back,” Jim continues. “Mom and Dad aren’t in the best health. Mom broke her hip last fall. She’s finally up and about, but she’s frail. And Dad, well, he’s been having memory trouble. Some days are better than others.”

“I’m so sorry,” I say, thinking of my own parents for a moment. I feel guilty for the great wall of silence I’ve built between us. I didn’t do it intentionally, of course. I just couldn’t bear to hear their voices, see their faces—mirrors of the pain I felt. We went out to see them the summer before . . . I close my eyes for a moment, and I can see Ella jumping around in the steamy Midwest night air, reaching for fireflies. “Look, Mama,” she squeals, her voice still so fresh in my mind. She runs to me with hands cupped together. “I caught one! What should we call him?”

I smile and take her inside, where I find an old mason jar in a cabinet in my mother’s kitchen and show her how to make a proper firefly home, adding some twigs and leaves to the bottom, then piercing the metal lid with a steak knife to provide airflow for the little critter. “There,” I say. “Your very own firefly.”

She presses her nose to the glass. “Can we take him home to New York?”

I shake my head. “No, honey,” I say softly. “He belongs here.”

I don’t have to explain any further. She understands.

Ella understood so much more than most little girls her age. I sigh, thinking of that magical summer trip, thinking of James, and my parents, who’d had a new swing set installed in their backyard that month for Ella, their only grandchild. I shake my head. No, I couldn’t face them. So when my parents called, I didn’t answer the phone one day, and the next, and the next. Eventually, I sent a letter. I promised I’d call when I was ready. But I didn’t know when that would be.

Jim looks down at Haines and smiles. “Anyway, it’s nice to be here for them, you know?”

“Yeah,” I say vacantly.

“How about you?” he asks. “Where’s home for you?”

I look in the distance, as if I can actually see my Manhattan apartment beyond the Seattle skyline, then I turn back to face Jim. “I’ve lived in a lot of places,” I say.

“Right,” he says. His eyes sparkle as if he gets it, as if he has secrets of his own. He nods. “Well, you’re going to love it here.”

“I hope,” I say. “By the way, is there a grocery store nearby, someplace to pick up the essentials?”

Jim nods and points to the street above the dock. “Pete’s Market,” he says. “Just a few blocks from here. It’s been around as long as I have. Great wine, too. But then again, if you need anything, just pop over. We’re very communal here when it comes to bread, eggs, and milk.”

I smile. “Thanks.” I turn back to the lake, then again to the street above the dock. “It was dark when I arrived last night, so I’m still trying to get my bearings. Can you walk to much else around here?”

He nods. “Best coffee shop in Seattle is just up the hill on Eastlake, and you don’t want to miss the Italian restaurant, Serafina.”

“Sounds nice,” I say. If James were here, he would have already scouted it and made reservations for dinner tonight.

“You won’t find a better little community on the West Coast.” He turns back to Haines, who’s been listening to our conversation intently. “Well, I better get back to the search party,” he says, digging a hand into his pocket and pulling out a crust of bread. “Her favorite: stale ciabatta.”

“I hope you find her,” I say. Haines tilts his head as if he understands exactly what I’m saying.

Jim nods. “I’ll be back around this afternoon to move the boat back to my slip.”

“Oh, please don’t worry about it,” I reply. “I really don’t mind. It’s actually kind of quaint.”

He scratches his head. “Well, if it’s all right with you.”

“I insist,” I add.

“She has quite a history here, the Catalina.”

I shake my head. Her name must be painted on the opposite side. And then I remember the painting. “The Catalina?”

He grins.

“Inside my houseboat,” I say, pointing back toward the French doors, “there’s a painting—”

“Yes,” he says. I see the sparkle in his eyes again. “Well, I’ll be seeing you around.”