The late spring night was mild, so Clendenin stood out on the deck of the ferry, where he could watch the lights of Nantucket recede.
He would spend the night in Boston, then fly the following day to London, and then on to Singapore. He had packed one trunk, which would precede him, and he traveled now with a large rolling suitcase, easily manipulated with one hand.
Singapore. He couldn’t believe it. He had waited so long, to no avail, it had always been just out of reach, and now it was like a golden apple that had dropped into his hand.
He had called Elizabeth Jennings to thank her, and she had said, “I had nothing to do with it. I only mentioned to Jack that I knew you. He took the ball and ran with it. You can hardly be surprised, Clen. You have a Pulitzer. Any foreign desk in the world would be lucky to have you.”
Gracious of her to say. He doubted it was true, but he wasn’t going to argue.
Singapore was his perfect match.
He recalled a similar ferry ride, over a quarter century earlier. A young man, twenty-three years old, with two healthy, strong arms, a sense of adventure, and a big dream, was heading out to conquer the world.
He had waved madly at Dabney and had called out I love yous.
Dabney had told him, again and again, We are a perfect match. No matter what happens, we are going to end up together.
End up together. Yes, he supposed they had.
The foghorn sounded its long, lonely note. Dabney was gone. He would forever dwell in the prison of her absence.
But he had been so lucky. She had granted him a second chance: six months of the purest happiness he’d ever known. He pictured Dabney pulling into his driveway in the Impala and climbing the three steps to the porch of his cottage. Her hands on the sides of his face. Her smile.
In his jacket pocket, Clen fingered Dabney’s pearls. She had given them to him in her final days. When he first held them, they were still warm from her neck.
Keep these, she said. And think of me.
As if anything else were possible.