by Mae Wood
“It’s this amazing love. It’s this amazing feeling of fullness. And it’s bittersweet. That she lived a good life. That she did amazing things and that we got to be a part of that. That we had her love and her time and that we’re richer for it. And I didn’t understand why she wanted part of her to be in Seattle forever. But I think I’m beginning to understand. Because her parents are here. And the house where she grew up is here. And she met Grandpa here. And Mom was born here. And while she hasn’t been a part of Seattle for fifty years, Seattle is a part of her. I wanted to find a quote from one of those books about death and grief and love and home and family, I couldn’t find one. I found hundreds. So thank you, Grammie. I love you and I miss you.”
The silence filled the spaces between us again. My brother took my free hand in his, the three of us siblings holding hands together like we hadn’t in decades. “I love you, Grammie,” he said, and his words were echoed by Jess. My mother’s face turned back into my father’s chest and her shoulders began to shake. My father dropped his head next to hers, rocking her back and forth. The wind picked up and her cries quieted. Mom lifted her head and nodded her thanks at the staff. Hand in hand, my parents began to walk away, and we followed.
Back at the cars, my parents said a quick goodbye to us. “I’m taking your mom back to the hotel,” my dad told us.
Patrick loaded his kids and wife into their rental car. “I’m taking the kids down to the Seattle Center and Pike Place and maybe the oddities store. They’ve been troupers. Let’s circle up later about dinner.”
We waved them off and Jess turned to me. “Lunch? Coffee?”
“Glass of wine?” I laughed, trying to shake off the sadness, but my joke was hollow. We wandered around the neighborhood, looking at the stately homes.
“I think that’s where Alice and Fred lived,” I said, pointing at a great wooden Victorian that sat on the park.
We stopped on the sidewalk and gazed up at the two-story house. Wooden siding, painted green with crisp white trim. A large bay window looked over a small, neat front garden. The entire neighborhood would have been new when they moved in, I realized. The tall trees in yards would have been saplings. Or not even planted yet.
“I noticed the pink roses that you brought for Great-Grandma’s grave,” my sister said, not looking at me.
“Yeah,” I said, keeping my eyes on the house as well, my mind turning over daydreams of newlywed Fred and Alice moving in, of him picking up the morning paper from the front path, of her tending to dahlias and roses and the other flowers that grew so well here, drawing upon the stories that Grammie told me in my childhood to give names and colors and texture to their life in my imagination.
“That’s what Elliott left her, right?”
“Right,” I said. A gust of wind bit at us and I wrapped my arms around my coat. It wasn’t cold. Not like the cold I was used to, but the gray of the sky tricked my body into a shiver. “Now I know why they drink so much coffee here,” I joked. “Let’s go find a cup.”
A few blocks away, we settled into a small coffee shop.
“So tell me more about Elliott. Do you think they—you know…” she said with a smirk.
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. It’s all the restrained passion. There’s a reference to a kiss, but nothing more. I’ll send you copies of the letters. I had them scanned and then all of”—I waved my hand over my shoulder in the direction we’d walked—“that happened and I meant to send it to Elliott’s family, but things just got…”
“Busy.”
“Yeah. It took me a bit to find a company to make digital images of the letters, that promised that they would be careful, and then I got busy and I kinda forgot to pay the people for the longest time so it was almost embarrassing. Like, worse than showing up at the dry cleaners because you’ve found a claim ticket in your car, and not having any idea what you dropped off, or when you dropped it off, and wondering if the dry cleaners had sold your clothes yet. Anyway, I got around to getting the scans and I did manage to load them onto my cloud, but then I wanted to write a nice email to send along and I kept putting it off and then last month—”
“Oh, you don’t have to tell me about life. I don’t remember the last time I had a weekend without the kids around. I felt crappy about not bringing them, but they were at the funeral and then Patrick’s kids weren’t exactly charming on the plane, from what Mom told me, so it’s for the best. But Elliott’s family? You found them?”
“Yeah. It’s amazing what you can find online these days. Grammie knew. It was kinda our project.” I cupped my hands around the coffee cup, trying to let it warm my bones, but I knew that it was sadness and not the weather that had me chilled.
“So, tell me.”
“Well, I learned a lot about Elliott. Thank goodness he basically wrote his biography in a letter to her because it would have been a lot harder to track him down if we hadn’t known where he was born and where he went to college. By the way, those class notes that are in the alum magazines? Where people brag and update the world about their lives? Those live forever. Forever. We found some from the nineteen thirties. Class of 1911. Elliott Keller reporting that he’d been promoted by an oil company and could be reached through the Army and Navy Club in Manila. But Caroline gets the credit. She really got the ball rolling. I was able to find out about Elliott, but she found his descendants.”
“Are you going to give his family the letters?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “I mean, they haven’t asked and I haven’t offered anything more than the electronic copies. The letters were Alice’s and she kept them, so I feel like I should keep them.”
“You should send them the electronic copies.”
“I will. Remind me when we get back to the hotel. And Elliott’s great-grandson—he’s the one I’ve been emailing with—his name is Ben and he lives here.”
“You should meet up with him.”
“Maybe I’ll ask if he’s free,” I said, drawing out my response as I drank more of my vanilla latte and gave myself time to think about Ben Copley and his funny emails, but I wasn’t sure if I’d be brave enough to ask him to hang out, especially last minute.
Thirty-two
Ali
February
<
Ben,
I’m sorry that it’s taken me forever to get back to you. My grandmother died.
I’m in Seattle for the internment of her ashes, so Alice and Elliott have been in my mind all day. My sister and I walked by the house that Alice lived in with her husband Fred. Tomorrow, I’m going to the hotel-apartment building-boarding house where Alice lived. You’ll read it in the letters, but Elliott sent her flowers the morning that his boat left for the Philippines. I’ve got his calling card where he wrote “Good-bye, E.” You can see the holes where it was pinned to a ribbon or some tissue paper. It makes them so real when I hold that little card. And I like to think that some of the flower petals that are stuck in the family bible are from that bouquet your Elliott gave her—but that’s probably silly.
I left some flowers at Alice’s gravesite today. Pink roses, like what Elliott sent. It seemed like a good idea at the time and I hope my great-grandfather Fred, who is buried next to Alice, forgives me.
Anyway, I didn’t know much about my great-grandmother, and while I can’t say that I know her, she’s now real to me. A woman who went on a big adventure, fell in love with a stranger on a train, and made a life for herself. I’m proud to have her old-fashioned name.
The link to the cloud storage with the scans of the letters is below. Password is Seattle.
And jelly beans, definitely. I like the black ones that taste like licorice.
Ali
<
Ali,
I’m very sorry to hear about your grandmother.
Alice is a good name. And isn’t any more of an old-fashioned name than Ben is.
I’m Benjamin Wilbert Copley. Everyone think
s the initial W is for William and I just let them go with it. The Benjamin is because my parents liked it, but the Wilbert is after a great uncle on my dad’s side.
So your Alice could be worse. Much worse.
Do you remember that TV show Mister Ed with the talking horse from the 60s? It was in reruns when we were little and my sister thought it was hysterical to say “Hello, Wilbur” like the horse did. So in the family names lottery, you’re the big winner. Alice is a pretty name.
You’re probably not up for it, considering the circumstances, but I’ll ask anyway. Let’s grab a coffee tomorrow. I’ve got a beer-coffee-entire cocktail menu offer to make good on. Take your pick. I can be free whenever you have time. I’m just north of Lake Union, not far from the zoo.
Ben
<
Ben,
Sounds like a plan. I thought about asking if you were free, but it was last minute and I didn’t know what you had going on or if you were serious about the coffee-beer-cocktail offer. I don’t fly out until Sunday morning. I don’t have any plans for tomorrow other than walking by the place where Alice lived—the Hotel Astoria—and then heading down to Pike Place Market. That’s probably too touristy for you though. What about coffee? Let me know when and where.
And your sister missed a golden opportunity. I would have gone with Wilbur from Charlotte’s Web and called you “Some Pig.”
Ali
<
Ali,
Let’s do it. Google tells me there’s a branch of this coffee shop that I like right near there. They roast their own beans. How about Victrola at 2? Okay if I bring Thompson?
I can’t believe you remembered that kids’ book. And yes, a couple of years ago she sent me a T-shirt that says “Some Pig” on it. No clue where she found it.
Ben
<
Victrola at 2. See you and Thompson then.
“It’s a date,” my sister announced that night when I asked her about her thoughts about me meeting up with Ben for coffee and leaving her high and dry for an hour or so the next day. “I mean, I haven’t been on a first date in, what? Ten years? But it’s a date.”
“It’s not a date. We’ve emailed some and I’m in town. It’s a ‘let’s meet up.’ It’s not a date.” I said the words, but I wanted it to be a date. I wanted Ben to be as funny and kind as he was in our emails. I wanted him to be cute. But most of all, I wanted him to like me in person. I felt like I knew him and I felt like he’d be the same in person, but I also knew that I really didn’t know him.
“Well, hello, Miss Defensive. I was teasing you. Teasing you, but now I’m thinking that it is a date.”
“It’s not. Trust me,” I told her, reminding myself that it wasn’t a date. That as charming as our brief emails had been, I didn’t know anything about him. But as I put on my makeup the next morning, I took my time to get my eyeliner just right. I wished it was a date.
I pushed through the glass door of the coffee shop at two o’clock on the nose, and I was more nervous than I’d been at any of the job interviews I’d had over the past few months. I knew what to expect with those. But this? I didn’t have a clue.
The coffee shop was nestled in a cozy block of brightly painted single-story buildings and was next door to the bar where I’d had a beer when I was up for my interview. Light spilled in through the large plate-glass windows onto the exposed brick. I looked around, but then remembered that I didn’t know what I was looking for. I didn’t know who I was looking for. There were four guys entranced by their various electronic gadgets and Ben could have been any of them. I scanned their faces, trying to match one to Ben. Was he handsome? What color were his eyes? Did he have a beard? Was he short? Please don’t let him be shorter than me, I thought. And I knew it was stupid of me. I knew it was shallow, but I was taller than average and liked dating men taller than me. It’s not a date, it’s not a date, it’s not a date. I kicked myself for getting my hopes up.
At the counter I ordered black coffee and started doctoring it up my favorite way—heavy on the half and half, with more than a touch of sugar. I stirred my brew, dropped my dirty spoon in a crock, and as I turned around with my mug in hand I heard a crash behind me. I’d knocked over the crock of clean spoons with my purse. Every head in the place swiveled to stare at me and I stage-whispered a “sorry” in an apology to the universe.
I set my mug on the counter and bent down to clean up after myself. The ceramic crock had survived but its embossed clean label was an utter lie. I began dropping the scattered spoons into the vessel, thankful that I hadn’t made more of a mess.
“Let me help,” a man said.
“Thanks,” I said, grabbing another couple of spoons without looking up. “But it’s my mess. I’ve got it.”
His hand shot into view as he grabbed a spoon that I was about to reach. My fingers brushed the back of his hand and I jerked back. I muttered another apology and I looked up to his face. Warm brown eyes framed with thick glasses. A mess of brown hair with threads of silver at his temple and a friendly smile.
“No worries,” he said from his crouch next to me. “Happy to help.” He dropped the spoon into the crock I was holding before standing up.
I looked around to make sure we’d picked up all of the spoons and then I stood myself, readjusting my purse. “Thanks.”
“Ali?” he asked, his smile growing.
“Ben?” He was handsome. I don’t know what I’d been expecting, I couldn’t have drawn a picture of what I expected, but I hadn’t been expecting him. And he was taller than me.
“Yeah. You this graceful with a scalpel?”
I smiled and rolled my eyes at his tease. “I’ve got a great deal on some oceanfront property in Arizona that you might be interested in,” I shot back, feeling my smile grow because with that simple exchange, I knew that the man I only knew through his words, the man who I liked because of his words, was the same man I found in front of me.
“I’m about to come into thirty pieces of eight or some gold doubloons on February thirtieth, so I think we can cut a deal. Nice to meet you, Ali,” he said, the smile still on his face as he hoisted a messenger bag up on his shoulder and extended his hand for a shake.
“Nice to meet you,” I said, shaking his hand. Warm and soft and enveloping mine—the crush I’d been secretly tending roared to life, making my heart do a little waltz. Maybe I could pretend this was a date in my head, to get ready for dating again. A secret practice date. Yes, that would work. I was on a secret practice date. I reached down to pet the yellow lab sitting neatly at his feet. “And nice to meet you, Thompson.”
Thirty-three
Ali
February
“Can I get you anything?” he asked.
“I’ve got coffee,” I said, picking up my mug, “so I’m good, but thanks.”
“Cool. Let me get something.” I watched him walk to the counter and I reminded myself that I didn’t know him. That a few friendly emails and a nice smile and a handsome face didn’t make him a real friend, and that I didn’t need to make my secret pretend practice date into anything more than it was.
While he ordered, I scored us two seats at a big communal table. A mug in hand, he found me and made a slight frown at the table full of people typing away on laptops.
“Mind if we get this to go?”
“Works for me. I’ll nab a go-cup,” I agreed, happy to explore and breathe fresh air that didn’t have a hospital smell. Plus, the day was warm for February and the wind didn’t bite through my coat.
“So Alice lived around here?” he asked as we stepped out on the sidewalk.
“That building across the intersection.” I pointed. “The Astoria. It’s condos now.”
“It was really cool that the letters didn’t have a street address. Just the hotel name.”
“You’ve read them?” I was surprised because it hadn’t even been a day since I sent him the link.
“Last night. I
was printing out a set for my mom and I got sucked in.”
“It’s so easy to get sucked in,” I agreed. “At first I felt like some sort of creep, peering into his letters, but—”
“It’s not creepy. It’s this amazing window into his life a hundred years ago.” We crossed the street and stopped in front of the red brick building with its white stone trim. “I wonder when it was built?”
“1910ish,” I answered, scanning the windows and wondering which one was Alice’s.
“It was new when she lived here.”
“What, five years old? And I don’t know where she lived before she met Elliott. There are some letters to her at other addresses in the box with Elliott’s letters, but those are later.”
“Letters from another boyfriend? Did your Alice two-time my Elliott?” Ben teased, bumping his shoulder against mine.
“No, letters from her family and friends from her normal school,” I said, bumping his arm back with my shoulder. “I think the only two-timing she did was with my great-grandfather and I’m not sure that counts.”
“What’s normal school?”
“Teacher’s college,” I explained. “That’s what she was doing here. She was a school teacher.”
“She and Elliott had that in common, then.”
I nodded in response and sipped my coffee, savoring its warmth.
“Elliott was married before my great-grandmother,” Ben said.
I turned toward him, thoughts roiling in my brain. But Elliott wasn’t married to Alice. All of the evidence I had said they weren’t married.
“To Alice?” I asked because maybe I was wrong.
“I thought so. Well, my mom thought so. She’d heard rumblings that he’d been married before Pearl, but it wasn’t something she actually knew anything about. And she’d never looked into it. So, when she learned about the love letters, she was convinced that your great-grandmother was Elliott’s first wife.”