by Coralie Moss
“Anna!” boomed a voice from behind a row of glistening white hulls.
“Hey, Harry.” She smiled, released the handles, and accepted the man’s bear hug.
“Did you meet my nephew?” he asked. “He passed you on the ramp.”
A plummeting sensation tumbled through Anna’s belly, pulling her confidence in the general direction of the water below. Harry had purchased a seiner-style fishing boat with the intention of doing a complete refitting so the vintage vessel could be leased to summer visitors as a floating bed-and-breakfast. She felt the potential for profits slipping away like the tide.
“No, I didn’t meet him,” she said. And he didn’t even see me.
“Oh.” He lowered his arms and stepped to the side. “Well. I had him come out here to look at the new boat and give me some ideas. He graduated from some fancy design school out east and wants to build his portfolio. Whatever that means.”
“Are you telling me you don’t need me for this project?” Anna asked, acutely aware she hadn’t exactly dressed for success that morning. After cleaning the sides of two vehicles with her ample chest and rear, she looked more like a stall-mucking horse hand than someone who regularly worked on private yachts.
Harry crossed his arms over his barrel chest, apparently preferring to consult the water slapping at the sides of the boat in front of them than look her in the eyes. “In the interest of family relations, I think I have to give this one to the kid.”
Anna pulled into her driveway a little after four and jammed on the parking brake. Dried big-leaf maple leaves crunched underfoot as she stomped from the truck to the porch stairs. Opening the door to an empty house continued to unnerve her, and once she put the groceries away, ate one of the chocolate bars, and swept the kitchen floor clean of the grit she’d tracked in, the stillness inside her house pressed at her chest and shoved her outdoors.
She grabbed a slicker off the coatrack and headed to the beach to clear her head.
Losing a client like Harry delivered a double blow—to her income and her ego—and she could kick herself. Twice. She’d neglected to stay on top of design trends she once tracked with a sharp eye. And by lowering already low-key island chic to new levels of I-don’t-care, she’d neglected to present herself as a business owner, to other business owners.
She stalked from her end of the pebbled cove to the other and back, continuing to fume at Harry and herself. The rocks underfoot were slippery in places, and her silent venting was interspersed with a few arm flails and yelps. At least there was no one around to witness her lack of grace, and when chilled air threaded its fingers through her layers, she walked the half-moon-shaped circuit for the last time and headed home.
Tossing her jacket onto the hook by the door, she toed off her boots, padded to her bedroom to change, and emptied the last of a bottle of wine into the first glass she grabbed. Standing at the sink to rinse out the bottle, the view through the window toward the cove revealed her favorite sitting rock, now occupied by a man decked out in a red jacket and a knit cap.
She could begin to rectify her sense of social isolation by putting her coat back on, going out, and introducing herself. He might be the man she’d met earlier, the tourist who appeared a bit lost in the grocery store. They could laugh about the coincidence.
Or she could stay in her cozy kitchen, comfortable in her flannel pajama pants, and sip inexpensive wine from a cheap glass while she reheated last night’s leftover vegetable stew.
Anna tugged the café curtains across the window and stirred the contents of the cast-iron pot, rehearsing her thanks-but-no-thanks argument for when she informed Elaine she would not accompany her to Vancouver. Intimacy workshops were too far a reach for her short arms, and if the walls of her cottage could talk, they would all but affirm she was a fifty-year-old woman anchored by routine, grown complacent with her worn and familiar surroundings. Her closet, filled with clothes that no longer fit, marked a growing indifference to how she presented herself to the world outside.
And wine in a juice glass was pure laziness.
Movement on the beach shifted her attention off the dive into the pool of self-abasement she kept filled for nights like this. The man in the red jacket made his way to the flat-roofed cottage next door. Lights went on in the front room and in the kitchen. Anna sipped at her wine. Her inner chatter mellowed, giving over to alcohol-infused musing.
Maybe her new neighbor would be around for a while.
Maybe he had a wife, or a husband, and they could get together for dinner and conversation and she could figure out how to be witty again. She didn’t need any special breathing techniques to hold her own at a dinner party; she just needed someone to set her a place and offer her a seat. When Gary was alive, gathering with friends was practically effortless. But the longer she was single and the longer she went between trips into town, the longer the time between invitations to socialize.
And here it was, the end of September, with Canadian Thanksgiving two weeks away, and she had no idea where she would celebrate the holiday.
She drained her glass, turned from the window, and switched on her desktop. The ancient machine went through its repertoire of wheezing and whirring until the screen glowed blue. Birthday greetings formed a short queue in her inbox. She opened half a dozen animated cards from familiar senders, left the rest for later, and scanned for any work-related emails.
One sender didn’t register at first, but the opening salutation set her pulse racing.
Dear Annalissa,
I have been trying to find you, on and off, for the past few years. I wasn’t having any success, and then I came across a notice in an old alumni newsletter of your husband’s death.
My sincere condolences on your loss.
Now I know I couldn't find you because your name changed. I hope you remember me. Would you like to correspond?
The six-line message settled itself on her lap like a pet unsure if it would be stroked or pushed to the floor. Anna rested her palms to either side of the keyboard, the beat of her heart thudding, and stared at the signature at the bottom of the note.
Daniel Strauss.
A rogue wave of longing made short work of the fragile clasp on her chest of memories. Another wave tumbled the container, spilling its contents over the living room floor.
Anna rose, those same waves compelling her to the door and out onto the porch, no stopping for a coat or shoes, no stopping for something that would shield her from the uprising swells of emotion or the downpour of rain. Outside the house, she could let the wide expanse of the Salish Sea carry away whatever had been uncorked by one simple email. Inside the house, her memories were too entangled with her years as a wife and mother.
She could not have predicted Daniel Strauss would reappear in her life, especially at a moment when she was in such a funk. She could not have predicted six lines of text would deliver a punch strong enough to crack the shell she’d built up around her version of the unmet expectations and unlived dreams she imagined everyone carried.
Daniel Strauss had been her first adult boyfriend. Only two or three years older, he’d also been one of her earliest creative mentors. She remembered wanting to impress him with her drawings and sculptures as much as she’d wanted to impress her favorite professors.
There had been no drama when they parted. He’d graduated, and Anna still had two years left to complete her degree. It hadn’t made sense to make promises or plans. Later, she’d thought about him in an offhand way whenever the art school they attended was mentioned in the news. Oh, and she had thought about him when passing highway signs for his hometown during a road trip from Toronto to New York City.
Sharper pangs, edged with guilt, reminded her she thought about Daniel a lot during a rare rough patch with Gary.
The skin across her chest and down her arms prickled. Embedded shards of memories pushed to the surface, their glassy veneer washed clean by splattering raindrops. She had been an awestruck freshman living i
n a big city, hesitant to approach the worldly, self-possessed junior until that day in the university’s dining hall.
Brooding, dark-haired Daniel, dressed in snug jeans and a pressed white shirt with perfectly rolled sleeves, sat at the head of a long table. His chair was turned toward the entrance door, his legs outstretched, bare ankles crossed. His gaze had made it clear he’d been waiting for her, and his pointed appraisal had cut through the cacophony of voices and clanging metal trays, unfurling an invitation of the most delicious sort.
Anna lifted her head, inhaled the scent of cedar and salt water, and welcomed the raindrops pelting her face. Cold wind teased at her patched pajama pants, slapping the soaked cuffs against her ankles, reminding her she wasn’t eighteen and in lust. She should go inside, change into dry clothes, and wash her face before the water pouring down from the sky finished wearing away whatever barrier cordoned off the Daniel part of her past from the discomfiting parts of her present.
Chapter Two
Two days after her fiftieth birthday, Anna awoke to a sunlight-filled room, a sense of dread, and a mild hangover. No amount of pillow-plumping and cover-rearranging helped pacify the wild brawl taking place in her chest.
Daniel Strauss was back in her life.
Dust motes filtered through beams of light. She squinted at the sparkly, carefree bits, willing them to take the shape of a sign or a code, something to point her in one direction or another. They remained frustratingly non-compliant, and her morning coffee wasn’t about to brew itself and offer a liquid lifeline. She rolled out of bed, pressed a button on her way into the kitchen, and waited for her desktop to wake up. Time to fashion a response to Daniel before her tendency to overthink forced her words into a tangle of mismatched consonants and vowels.
Dear Daniel,
My fingers are trembling as I type. I don’t know where to begin so I’ll start with yes, of course I remember you, and yes, I would like for us to correspond.
Obviously, you know I was married. Gary and I were together more than twenty years. We met soon after the last time I saw you at your family’s summer house. My husband and I had two kids, a boy and a girl. We moved to British Columbia when they were little to be closer to Gary’s family. I’ve lived here ever since.
I run my own business. Most of my clients are boat owners who visit the Gulf Islands.
I want to know more about why you were looking for me. And now that you’ve written, I can’t stop the memories I have of you, of us, of school. And now it’s your turn!
Annalissa
PS. Your email arrived on my birthday.
No one had called her Annalissa since college, when her unusual first name gave people at least one reason to remember her. She pressed send, rested her fingertips on the keyboard, and held her breath, waiting for Daniel’s response. He was out there, somewhere, his presence palpable at the other end of a long chain of invisible connections.
Next to the computer screen, the pink-striped box begged to be reopened. Anna peeked at the vibrators stacked alongside the packets of lube and noticed a gift receipt tucked underneath the sandalwood-scented tissue paper. Maybe she could exchange the travel-sized sex toys for something more befitting a woman who couldn’t remember the last time she had an orgasm.
Maybe she and Daniel could pick up where they’d left off.
A surge of nerves at the thought lifted her upright onto legs going jelly-like. Lack of support sat her back down. She couldn’t believe she’d let that idea slip out. She pulled the waist of her pajamas away from her belly and surveyed the loose elastic on her cotton underpants.
Her situation was dire.
If she and Daniel were going to move this exchange of words along into phone calls, she needed…she didn’t need anything except to actually listen to one of Elaine’s coaching sessions rather than shush her friend on to a more comfortable topic. But if this escalated into physical contact as quickly as it had when they’d first met, she needed new lingerie. And a shower. And something for the headache brewing behind her eyes.
Anna stroked the glossy surface of the gift bag as she stood. Pink. When was the last time she bought something feminine for herself, something pink and lacy, thin-strapped and high-heeled, or spectacularly frivolous?
Sometime in the past five years, maybe longer, she had given up. Widowhood and the start of her menopausal years collided, shrouding her in grief and dulling her skin, her hair, her outlook on life. Her clients were loyal and continued to refer others her way, but at heart she longed to be engaged in something more fulfilling than helping boat owners improve their vessel’s comfort and resale value.
Her children and best friend were her social lifelines, but Gary Jr. now had the responsibilities of marriage, Gigi was launching her own creative career, and Elaine loved her freedom as much as she loved starting new businesses. Where would she be if any of those three moved or gave up on her?
Anna closed her computer and went to dress, pulling on holey jeans, a sweatshirt, and a scuffed pair of brown leather work boots. She took her second cup of coffee to her sewing studio. It was her refuge in times of stress, and this morning, she was stressed. Besides, it needed a deep cleaning, and cleaning always helped organize her brain.
She unlocked the wide door and left it open to the rare autumn sun. Gary had customized the space once her business became more of a year-round source of income. He’d made two tables, a waist high one for laying out and cutting wide bolts of fabric and the other for sewing and finishing work. Shelves under both tables and against the long wall opposite the door held fabrics, patterns, boxes of threads, and other tools of her trade.
Anna collected errant scraps of fabric as she circled the room, putting larger pieces in one bin and unusable bits in the trash. Sewing machine bobbins and spools of thread showed up alongside giant dust bunnies— all the other things that had fallen off the tables during the busier summer months when visiting boaters needed sails repaired or gear replaced—when she swept under the tables.
Two and a half hours passed without notice as she swept, mopped, and dusted. She ran her hands over the tops of both tables, considered sanding and refinishing them. Better to check the long-term weather report first. Too much seasonal rain and the tables would take forever to dry.
She rested the front of her body against the cutting table, her elbows on a folded piece of silk velvet bought years ago on a whim. Through the door, her new neighbor came in and out of view, carrying furniture and odd bits of household items as though he was readying for a yard sale. She fingered the raw edge of the plush fabric cushioning her forearms and wondered what Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome was planning to do with the MacMasters’ belongings.
Fidgety fingers and a restless brain cycled her back to Daniel. In the short span of forty-eight hours, she’d gone from bemoaning her age to fantasizing about rekindling a relationship from thirty years ago.
The sudden shift had her clinging to the gunwales of her life’s rocking boat, wishing she packed an emergency set of oars or paid attention to warnings of tumultuous seas ahead. Letting go of the velvet, she rested her forehead in her palms, rounding her spine as one deep breath after another shuddered through her body.
Anna missed the life she and Gary created together. She missed the sense of being known, seen, and understood. The framework of their marriage had enfolded her in a sense of security and purpose twenty-four hours a day, twelve months a year, for close to twenty years. With her husband’s death, the mortise and tenon holding her days together loosened. Her life came crashing down, and the stability she’d assumed would always be there dissipated.
She groped for her work stool, her knees buckling under the weight of the unexpected upwelling of grief. The words in Daniel’s email promised nothing.
Nothing.
But reading them reminded her of all she wanted to be at that age, all she wanted to do before marriage and children had steered her life in another direction. Daniel knew her when she was on her way to
becoming an artist. She’d abandoned that road a long time ago.
She wiped her face with her hands, wiped her hands on her jeans, and shook open the length of velvet. With the pressure on her heart eased, she wheeled her dressmaker’s dummy to one of the windows, draped the velvet over the form, and took photographs to send to Gigi.
“I need a dress,” she texted. “Think you can help?”
Hunger finally drove Anna back inside the house. She fixed herself lunch and was back at her desk, fully intending to focus on work-related emails and orders and not hold her breath for Daniel’s next email, when Gigi called.
“Mom, where’d you get the fabric?”
“New York, I think. You like it?”
“It’s gorgeous,” she effused. “When do you want to come to the shop?”
Anna checked her date book. “How does Thursday look?”
“Let me ask Neena.”
The muffled sound of receding footsteps gave Anna a moment to ponder the starkly empty spaces of the calendar she’d opened.
“Mom, we’re completely booked for this week, but how about next Tuesday? Can you meet us here by noon? We could have lunch after, and you can stay with me if you don’t want to hassle with the ferry schedule.”
“Perfect. Anything you want me to bring from home?”
“Just you,” Gigi said, “and the velvet. Oh, and if you want to make one of your famous apple crumbles, we won’t turn it down.”
Anna ended the call and left her phone on the counter. Between composing the email to Daniel, waiting for a reply, a cleaning fit, a crying jag, and talking to Gigi, she’d forgotten about leaving the house in time to attend a talk at the library. She was just as happy to stay home.
Home had leftover birthday cake.
She reached into the back of the fridge for the last slice, jostling a couple of loose lemons on the same shelf. She managed to grab the one heading for the pit of despair underneath the refrigerator with her free hand without dropping the plate of cake. Her thumbnail punctured the fruit, sending a fine spray of lemon oil to commingle with the scent of chocolate as her butt landed on the kitchen floor.