Chapter 22

ADA

The next day, I decide to sort through the contents of the chest in the living room again. Maybe I’ve missed a clue to Penny’s story. I open the lid and look carefully, which is when I notice a flap on the side of the velvet lining that I didn’t see before. I tuck my hand inside the fabric and pull out a black-and-white photo of a beautiful blond woman. She looks like a Hollywood actress, and then I realize that . . . she is. Signed in the right-hand corner is the name Lana Turner.

How strange. Were the Wentworths friends with Lana Turner? I open up my laptop and do a Google search for “Wentworth” and “Lana Turner,” and I gasp when something comes up. It’s a scanned article from The Hollywood Reporter, dated 1959. “Seattle Artist Paints Iconic Mural in Home of Lana Turner.” I squint at the grainy photograph that accompanies the article and make out the actress in a light-colored dress (or is it a nightgown?) with her arm tucked around Dexter Wentworth.

Poor Penny. She must have been so lonely here, so sad, knowing her husband was having an affair. I remember a black-and-white Lana Turner film I watched while on bed rest during my pregnancy with Ella. James had brought home a stack of old movies and Chinese takeout after work. I’d been on the couch for four months, and my scheduled C-section was only days away. To think that the doctors had encouraged me to abort. My cancer was stable, and the tumor would be removed during a full hysterectomy after Ella’s birth. I turn back to the autographed photo of the glamorous actress. Cancer almost seemed like easier competition than a Hollywood star. Is that why Penny disappeared?

I look up when I hear a knock at my back door. I see Alex on the deck, and I smile, instantly wishing I’d taken the time to freshen up after my paddle that afternoon. “Hi,” I say, opening the door.

“Hey,” Alex says. “Am I interrupting?”

“Oh, no,” I reply. “I was just looking through some old things from Penny’s chest.” I hold up the photo. “I think her husband was having an affair with Lana Turner.”

“Lana Turner, huh?” he says, kneeling beside me. “Marilyn, too?”

I shrug. “Who knows? The guy appears to have been quite the playboy.”

He sits down on the floor beside me, examining the contents of the chest, before picking up a scrap of paper I’ve disregarded until now. “Look,” he says. “It looks like a notice to Seattle residents about the World’s Fair of 1962.”

I scan the flyer, eyeing a sketch of what is now Seattle’s most iconic image, the Space Needle. “Come make history as the Mayor of Seattle cuts the ribbon to break ground in preparation for the Seattle World’s Fair.”

“I wonder if she went to this?” I say. “Why else would she have put the flyer in the chest?”

“Maybe,” Alex says, leaning against the couch. “Have you ever been to the Space Needle?”

I shake my head.

“Then I’m taking you.”

I grin. “Really?”

“Tonight,” he says. “I have a shoot this afternoon, but I can be back by six to pick you up.”

“It’s a date,” I say, smiling. As he walks out the door, the word date reverberates in my ears. Date.

I step out onto the dock in heels and a black skirt. It’s a warm night, so I’ve left my sweater and opted for the sleeveless top that Joanie insisted I buy after I tried it on at Macy’s last spring. I remember how she leaned against the fitting room door and smiled at me the way a proud big sister might. “You have to get it,” she said. “It looks amazing on you.”

“Why?” I grumbled. “I’ll never wear it.” It was silky and fitted, plus it sparkled a little. I’d never wear it to work. No, it was one of those tops I might have worn on a date night with James. Unlike some of my friends’ husbands, he noticed when I dressed up, and I loved that he did.

Joanie could read my mind; I knew it. “Buy it for you,” she said. So I obeyed, taking the top up to the counter and relinquishing my credit card, even though I really didn’t see the point. It hung in my closet, with tags still on, until I packed for Seattle. I threw it in at the last minute, then zipped up the suitcase before I could change my mind.

I tug at the top a little nervously as I face Alex. His eyes are big and curious. “You look beautiful,” he says, and instantly my confidence blooms.

He takes my hand as we walk along the dock. I worry that my heels will wedge into the grooves of the planks, and I’m grateful that he’s there to steady me when the spike of my left stiletto gets caught. We both laugh as we pass Jim’s houseboat, and then I see Naomi, watering the potted plants on her front deck.

“Oh, look at you two,” she says. “Going to dinner?”

Alex looks at me and smiles. “I thought I’d take our new neighbor to the Space Needle.”

She gazes at us nostalgically, as if she wishes she were thirty-five again, on the arm of a handsome man like Alex, who looks sharp in a sport coat and white button-down.

We wave to her and walk to the end of the dock, where I notice a light on in the houseboat where the mail was piled up just yesterday. I wonder if Esther Johnson has returned.

Up on the street, Alex points to a gray Audi sedan, and the lights blink once when he presses the button on his key chain. “I have to tell you, that woman gives me the creeps,” he says, opening the passenger door for me.

“Jim’s mother, Naomi?”

“Yeah,” he says. He walks around and opens the driver’s side door and climbs into the car. He starts the engine, and David Gray’s “Sail Away” drifts through the speakers. I listen for a moment and wonder if Penny ever wanted to sail away. Maybe she simply wanted to cut her losses and leave her adulterous husband, her critical neighbors . . . leave Boat Street forever.

I think of Dr. Evinson for a moment and his warning about running. But what’s the harm in running if you run to something better, somewhere where it doesn’t hurt so badly?

“Sorry,” Alex says, fumbling with the volume dial, “the music’s a little loud.”

“Don’t turn it down,” I say. “I like it.”

“Me, too,” he says. “When things got really bad for me a few years ago, I thought a lot about getting a sailboat and just casting off.”

“Why didn’t you?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I think I’d get sick of myself. All that alone time out in the middle of nowhere.” He glances at me then. “I might have gone if I’d had someone to sail away with.”

I smile and look away. I don’t ask him about Kellie or his daughter, and how they did or didn’t fit into his plans.

Alex pulls into a parking spot, and we step out to the sidewalk. The Space Needle towers overhead. It looks so much bigger up close, like a flying saucer on enormous steel stilts.

“We have a little time,” he says, eyeing his watch. “Want to walk around the Seattle Center for a bit?”

“Sure,” I reply.

He offers me his arm and I take it. Even in New York, I didn’t walk long distances in heels. I was one of those unashamed Manhattan women who wear sneakers with skirts, changing into heels only in the lobby of my office building. A podiatrist once stopped to congratulate me on my sensible choice of footwear. Joanie had a good laugh over that one.

He points to a pathway that leads through a park at the base of the Space Needle. “The city’s getting ready for the fiftieth anniversary of the Needle,” he says. “They’re collecting thousands of tiles made by the residents of Seattle in the late fifties and laying them in the ground over there to make a pathway.”

“That’s sweet,” I say. “Where were they before?”

“I think the article in the Seattle Times said something about their being found in a storage facility in the city’s administrative building.”

“Look,” I say, pointing ahead beyond the caution tape. I walk to the tape and kneel down to see a tile clearly painted by a child. Another features the name of a woman, Bethanne, painted in cursive handwriting, with squiggles and stars surrounding the letters. And then I notice a tile in the distance, with just three words painted inside a heart. “Forever my love.” Simple, and yet the statement of love pulsates with the poignancy of a Shakespearian sonnet.

“That one’s beautiful,” I say.

Alex nods. “It is.”

I shiver, and Alex drapes his coat over my shoulders. “Let’s walk to the restaurant now. Our table should be just about ready.”

We board an elevator at the bottom of the Space Needle and travel upward. Alex weaves his fingers into mine, and my heart leaps. The forty-three seconds it takes to get to the top feels like forty-three minutes, in a good way. I don’t let go of his hand as we step out into the lobby. And when we’re seated side by side at a table that faces directly out one of the windows, he reaches for my hand under the table, and I don’t pull back.

We order, and the waitress brings me a glass of wine and Alex an iced tea. I take a sip and feel warm all over.

“What do you think?” he asks.

“It’s beautiful up here,” I say, looking out the window. “You can even see Boat Street.”

“It looks microscopic down there, doesn’t it?”

I nod. “We’re all just like little ants, bickering and squabbling.”

“The way God sees us, I guess,” Alex adds.

I look away and don’t say anything for a few moments. God. Did he see Ella and James on the day of their death? Did he know what was about to happen? If so, why didn’t he stop them? Why didn’t he send an angel down to swoop them out of harm’s way? Why did he take them and make me watch every excruciating detail?

“What are you thinking about?” he asks.

I bite my lip. “Sorry. I was . . .”

“You’re carrying such a huge burden,” Alex says, his eyes piercing mine. “You must be staggering under the weight of it.”

I want to shake my head and say, “No, James and Ella are not a burden. They are the loves of my life, and I will keep them with me forever!” But he’s right. My burden is heavy, and my pain is all-consuming. At any moment I’m liable to stumble, to crack under its weight. And I fear I can’t hold on much longer. It’s as if someone’s put me in possession of an enormous, rare crystal vase and told me to carry it for the rest of my life, but every day, every second, I’m on the verge of letting it slip from my hands, watching it shatter into a dozen jagged pieces, and I with it.

“You know what they say in church?” he says.

I shake my head and inwardly roll my eyes.

“They say that God can carry our burden for us if we ask him to.”

I think about that for a moment and decide not to be annoyed by Alex’s statement. He’s only trying to help.

“I can’t tell you much about religion,” he continues. “I don’t have all the answers, far from it. I still have a lot to learn, but I can tell you that this is a pretty kick-ass benefit from the Almighty. He says, ‘Here, I’ll take your worries, your worst fears, and deal with them for you so you don’t have to anymore.’”

I smirk. “I wish it were that easy.”

“It is,” Alex says confidently. His eyes narrow then, and he looks at me tenderly. “I know you’re hurting. You may always be, and that’s OK. I just want you to know that you can find comfort if you seek it. And you can learn to be happy in the midst of it. You deserve that, Ada.”

“Well,” I say shyly, taking his hand in mine, “you should know something, then.”

“What?”

The edges of my mouth turn upward slightly. “I feel happier than I have in a long time.”

“I’m glad,” Alex says.

“What about you?” I ask, turning to him. “Are you happy?”

He takes a sip of his iced tea. “Yes,” he says. “More so now that a certain someone has moved to the dock.”

I grin.

“I’ve thought a lot about happiness over the last few years,” he continues. “If you were to ask me a while back, I might have told you I’d given up on it entirely. I was in a really bad place for so long. I swear, I thought I had a rain cloud hovering over my head.”

I don’t ask him about his demons. If I learned anything in therapy, it’s that it’s best when someone elects to share of their own accord, not by prodding.

He scratches his head. “You know, things fall apart. You grieve. And then you sit around and wait for things to somehow get perfect again. But they don’t. They never can. There is no perfect. There’s just different. But different can be wonderful.” He smiles to himself. “If I would have realized that a lot earlier, I’d have saved myself a lot of grief.”

“What finally made you realize?”

He leans back. “I was out in the kayak, alone, in the middle of the lake. It was a cold day in November. It was clear when I set out, but it clouded up and started to rain. Heavy rain, you know. Bone cold. I decided to paddle back. I was cursing the sky for ruining my morning row. I cursed everything back then.” He grins to himself. “But then I noticed something. I looked up at the sky, rain falling down, and the birds—they were all out flapping around, flying this way and that. I never noticed before that moment how rain doesn’t affect birds. They couldn’t care less about it. Sure, maybe they bristle a little when it hits their feathers. Maybe they decide to fly back to their nests and settle in until the clouds pass. But do they squawk and curse and protest? No. They roll with it. They chirp and sing the way they always do. They don’t let a little storm ruin their days, their lives.” He sighs, and turns to me. “Maybe this sounds crazy to you, but that day on the lake, I realized I wanted to be like a bird. I wanted to stop being so affected by the circumstances that were dragging me down.”

“Wow,” I say. “That’s beautiful.”

“That’s not to say that some things aren’t worth grieving over. I mean, what you’ve gone through, Ada . . .”

I nod.

“There’s a time for grief,” he continues. “I’ve gone through it. But I just didn’t want my life to be characterized by it.”

“Me either,” I say.

My eyes well up with tears, and he wipes one away, just as fellow diners around us begin cheering and clapping. We look around, oblivious to what has just transpired near us, and then notice a young couple at a table embracing. The woman holds up her left hand, and I see the sparkle of a diamond.

I think of the way James proposed, at our favorite New York City restaurant. He’d tucked the ring in his pocket and gotten down on one knee. Simple, perfect. I feel the familiar pain creeping back, and then I remember what Alex said. I know I may always ache for the past, for the two greatest loves of my life, but I want to be a bird now. I want to flap my wings through the rainstorms. I want to start my day with the earnestness of the morning glory, the way its blossoms open with the sunrise, ready to shine no matter what.

My eyes meet Alex’s and moments later, he presses his lips against mine. I’m hungry for his kiss, his embrace, just as he is for mine.

“Alex,” I whisper. “I want to tell you about my past.”

I feel like opening up for the first time in a long while. I want to tell him about everything, every painful detail. I want to lay it all out for him to see, like found rocks and jagged shells on the beach that he can pick up and examine and turn over. I want to be transparent again. I want him to see me, for all that I am.

He leans in closer, ready, open, waiting, and listens intently, as if I’m the only person who matters in the world.