Morning Glory

by Sarah Jio

  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.”

  Chapter 3

  PENNY WENTWORTH

  Seattle, June 8, 1959

  Dexter is gone. Again. I rise and walk out to the deck in front of the houseboat and dip my feet in the cool water. The dock sways as it always does in the mornings when the boats are leaving the south lake and making their way toward the locks. I don’t like it when they go. It makes me feel lonely, abandoned.

  I look to my right, where the new neighbor on the next dock over, Collin, is crouched over the hull of the boat he’s building. He sands a strip of the railing with long, smooth motions. I’m mesmerized, until he suddenly looks up and smiles. My cheeks redden and I turn away quickly. It’s still early, and people keep to themselves on the dock in the morning hours. There are unspoken rules. I stare at the lake until my eyes cannot be tamed a moment longer, and without my permission, they wander back to Collin’s dock. He’s wearing a white V-neck T-shirt that’s stained with sweat. I can make out the lines of his chest, the definition of his muscles beneath the thin cotton. He wipes his brow with the back of his hand. I look away before our eyes meet again and kick my feet back and forth in the cold lake water—so dark, like a vial of cobalt blue paint tinged with too much black. I lean forward and try, as I always do, to see below the surface. Instead, I make out only my reflection, blurred and distorted. I hardly recognize myself, and in that moment, I wonder how I ended up here on this houseboat, so utterly and profoundly alone.

  It was by complete coincidence that I met Dexter. If he hadn’t forgotten his portfolio. If I hadn’t stepped out for coffee at precisely nine thirty a.m. If the construction crew on Fifth Avenue hadn’t blockaded Madison Street. If the rain hadn’t picked up—our paths may have never crossed.

  On March 9, 1956, Mr. Dexter Wentworth’s cab pulled up into my life. He rolled down the window and said, “Come on in out of the rain. I’ll take you wherever you need to go.” Nearly twenty years older than I, he was frighteningly handsome, with a square jaw, chiseled face, and thick dark hair. He spoke in a cool, deep voice. Calm and sure, like a movie star.

  “But I’m only going around the corner to the café,” I demurred, smoothing my hair. What would Miss Higgins think? Surely it was breaking every finishing school commandment to speak to a strange man, much less to share a cab with one. But the rain was falling harder now, and he’d opened the cab door and was extending his hand to me.

  “All right,” I said. “Thank you.”

  Inside, the cab felt warm and smelled of a mixture of cologne and cigars. “What’s a beautiful girl like you doing out in this weather?”

  “I’m getting coffee,” I said. “For my teacher.”

  He looked amused. “Your teacher?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m a student at Miss Higgins Academy.”

  His grin turned into a smile. “Finishing school, huh?”

  My cheeks burned. I didn’t like the tone of his voice. And if I was completely honest with myself, I didn’t like the whole concept of finishing school. But Mama had insisted I go. She’d said the only way a girl from South Seattle would ever meet a decent husband was to attend Miss Higgins Academy. A husband. I didn’t even want a husband. But Mama wanted things for me that she’d never had. So I went.

  “And I suppose today’s lesson required you to walk fifty paces with a book on top of your head?”

  I frowned as the cab came to a stop in front of Bette’s Café. “Thank you for the ride,” I said, reaching for the door handle.

  “Come, now,” he said. “I didn’t mean any harm. Listen, let me buy you coffee.”

  I shook my head. “No, thank you, Mr. . . .”

  “Wentworth,” he said. “Dexter Wentworth.” Why does the name sound so familiar?

  I nodded and stepped out of the cab.

  “Wait,” he said, rolling the window down. “You can’t leave without telling me your name.”

  I hesitated. What would be the harm? I’d never see him again. “It’s Penny,” I said. “Penny Landry.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Landry.”

  I didn’t tell any of the girls about meeting Dexter Wentworth, but they found out when an enormous vase of lilies arrived that afternoon—stargazers, the ones that jump out of a vase and beg to be noticed, admired—with a note that read, “Dinner at the Olympic tonight. I’ll pick you up at eight. Dexter.”

  At first I thought it was very presumptuous, if not appallingly conceited, of him to assume I’d say yes. But then the girls huddled around me, oohing and aahing. Miss Higgins, tall and thin with gray hair set in tight curls against her head and perfectly applied red lipstick, read the card herself. Her skeptical expression quickly melted into approval. “You do know who this man is, don’t you, Penny?”

  I shook my head.

  “Dexter Wentworth,” she said. “The artist. His paintings are in galleries all over the world. He’s the most eligible bachelor in Seattle.” She shook her head as if trying to make sense of how I had managed to lure such a catch.

  “I m
et him this morning,” I said defensively. “He gave me a ride to the café.” The girls’ mouths gaped open. “It was raining,” I added.

  “I’m absolutely green with envy,” Sylvia squealed. “And to think, if I had gone out for coffee instead of you. Some girls have all the luck.”

  Miss Higgins patted Sylvia on the back. “Let this be a lesson to you all,” she said. “Penny has excelled in her coursework here, and look at how it’s paid off.” I smirked. Of course Miss Higgins would try to take credit. “Sylvia, you’d do well to practice your cosmetic application this afternoon. You’re consistently applying your rouge too high on your cheekbones, and it’s making your face appear much too angular.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” she said, scurrying off to the beauty room.

  “And, Vivien,” Miss Higgins said to the youngest girl, who was seventeen and the heaviest at the academy.

  “Yes, Miss Higgins,” Vivien replied in a high-pitched voice.

  “I see you’ve been eating pastries again,” she said disapprovingly. “I thought we discussed your new diet goals.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” she said.

  “You will do an extra hour of calisthenics this afternoon.”

  “Yes, Miss Higgins,” Vivien said, turning to the stairs.

  “And you, Penny,” Miss Higgins said, clasping her hands together and smiling at me as if I were a star pupil. “We must spend the rest of the day readying you for this very important occasion.”

  When Dexter asked me to marry him three months later, I said yes. What other answer was there, really? If someone dropped a diamond necklace in your palm and said, “Put it on; it will look lovely on you,” of course you’d smile and drape it around your neck, admiring your reflection in the mirror. Yes, I accepted his marriage proposal, maybe even before I knew whether I loved Dexter Wentworth or whether I loved the idea of being in love with Dexter Wentworth. But when the whirlwind of our courtship settled, I saw him for who he was: a sensitive, creative, and deeply caring man, who loved me, and whom I loved in return. We’d tell our love story to our children, and they’d giggle and grin. Ours would be punctuated with a “happily ever after,” or so I thought.

  I almost fainted when Mama laced up the back of my wedding dress. “My water baby swims to shore,” she said to me as I stared into the mirror, surveying myself in the enormous white dress. I remember looking away, unable to look into my own eyes.

  After the reception, Dexter carried me over the threshold, a floating one. He owned a home on Queen Anne Hill, but he preferred living in his houseboat on Lake Union. He painted better there, he said, and the water helped clear his head. I remember the feeling of swaying when he set me down, though that could have been me as much as the boat. How could a woman ever fit into this very masculine place, I wondered, surveying the mass of canvases and art supplies, the brown davenport, assorted painted oars, and carved wooden fish, gifts from a Native American artist friend. But then he turned to me and whispered, “Don’t worry, you can change everything to your taste.” He was generous, always generous.

  I close my eyes and try to remember the way he used to look at me then, with such love, such desire.

  The oven timer beeps from the kitchen, extracting me from my memories. I almost forgot the blueberry muffins. I lift my feet out of the lake and run inside to grab an oven mitt, then pull them out, breathing in their sweet, steamy scent. Last week I confided in Dexter about my dream of opening a bakery, but he only laughed. “You’d hate it after five minutes,” he said, dismissing the idea.

  “That’s not true,” I said.

  He patted my leg. “Sweetheart, you’d be bored to pieces.”

  What I didn’t say was that I’m bored to pieces now. Dexter has his art. I have . . . nothing. Mama says I should be grateful not to have to work; she says women would kill to be in my position. But I want to do something. And after the house is cleaned, mending done, clothes ironed, there is nothing more. I want something more.

  I stare at the pan of muffins and wonder if Dexter is right. What do I know about business? I shake my head as I transfer the muffins from the pan to the cooling rack. I select three and wrap them in a white tea towel. I’ll offer some to Collin, as a welcome-to-Boat-Street gesture. I won’t eat them all, I rationalize, and Dex, well, who knows when he’ll be home, so there’s no sense letting them go to waste.

  I run to the back door to get my shoes, which is when I hear a sniffling sound coming from the deck.

  “Hello?” I say, before peering out the back door. “Is someone there?”

  Little Jimmy Clyde is huddled against the houseboat with his knees pressed to his chest and his face buried in them. He’s the eight-year-old son of Naomi and Gene Clyde, who live three houseboats down on the dock. On weekends, Jimmy likes to sit with his fishing pole in sight of my front windows. He caught a trout last Saturday, and I helped him clean it. His little legs dangled over the barstool at my kitchen counter while I fried the fish in a cast iron skillet. I served it for lunch with butter and parsley, and Jimmy said it was the best meal he ever ate, which was a compliment, given that his mother is a proficient cook.

  “Oh, honey,” I say, rushing to him. “What’s the matter?”

  “Mommy hates me,” he says, wiping a tear away.

  “No, she doesn’t, dear,” I say, patting his head. “No one could ever hate you.”

  “Then why did she tell Daddy that she wants to send me to boarding school?”

  I shake my head. “I’m sure that’s not what she meant.”

  He nods. “But she did say it. They never think I can hear them from upstairs, but I can.”

  Jimmy is the only child on the dock. It’s clear that he doesn’t fit into his parents’ carefully curated world of cocktail parties and career achievement. I once saw Naomi trip over one of Jimmy’s toys in the kitchen during a dinner party, and the look on her face still shakes me. It was as if she was allergic to her son’s presence.

  Jimmy looks up suddenly. “I know!” he exclaims.

  I cock my head to the right and smile. “What?”

  “I could come live with you. You could be my mother.”

  I am certain that I feel my heart break then, just a little. I squeeze his hand. “As happy as I would be having you around all the time, your parents love you too much to give you up. And you know that, dear.”

  He nods, but his eyes are distant, lonely. Just like mine.

  Chapter 4

  ADA

  I fish my cell phone out of my bag, relieved to see I have reception, and dial Joanie.

  She picks up after one ring. “Ada?”

  “I’m sitting here in the houseboat,” I say. “And I can’t decide whether I love it or if I want to catch the next plane home.”

  “Don’t do that,” she says. “Give it some time.”

  A horn sounds in the distance.

  “Is that a boat?”

  “Yeah,” I say, looking out to the lake. It sparkles as if it’s covered in diamonds. “It’s a tugboat. I think.”

  “Well, it sure beats traffic noise,” Joanie says. I can hear engines racing and horns honking on the New York City streets. And for the first time, I realized I haven’t heard a car horn since I arrived. I like that.

  “Yeah,” I reply, walking out to the deck and sinking into the Adirondack chair. “I actually slept in this morning. I haven’t done that since . . .”

  “Good girl,” she says. “Maybe you can ditch those awful sleeping pills. I read something in the New York Times last week linking them to a higher death risk.”

  “Great,” I say. “So if insomnia doesn’t kill me, the sleeping pills will.”

  “Well, it sounds like Seattle may be your antidote,” she says. “Maybe there’s something medicinal about living on a boat. I imagine it would lull you to sleep. Sounds relaxing, actually.”

  I nod to myself. “A floating home,” I say, correcting her. “But yes, this place definitely has a different feel to it. So different fro
m New York. It’s a slower pace.”

  “Good,” she says. “You need that. So have you met any of the neighbors?”

  “Just a guy,” I say.

  “A guy?”

  “Stop,” I say. “It’s nothing like that. He’s as old as my dad.”

  “Oh.”

  I change the subject. “I thought I’d go for a canoe ride today.”

  “You should,” she says. “Remember how James loved kayaking?”

  Panic floods my senses. My palms are sweating and my mouth feels dry.

  “You OK, honey?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “It’s just that I—”

  “I know. I shouldn’t have brought it up. Did you see Lauren Cain on Today this morning?”

  “They put her on?” Lauren is an assistant editor at Sunrise who desperately wants my job and has always rubbed me the wrong way.

  “She wasn’t as good as you are on TV,” Joanie says. “She said ‘um’ a lot.”

  Somehow this makes me feel a little better, though I am still second-guessing my choice to leave the only thing I did well, the only thing that kept me going. Part of me wants to grab my suitcase and head back to New York to reclaim my place at the magazine, to go back to the way things were. Was life really that bad? Was I really that miserable?

  I say good-bye to Joanie and let my mind wander east, back to the life I left behind. I hear Dr. Evinson’s voice. “Don’t edit your thoughts,” he’d say. “Let them come.” So I do, even when it hurts.

  One year prior

  I’m sitting in a swivel chair in front of a mirror while a woman named Whitney dabs concealer under my eyes. The lights in the Today show dressing room are harsh and hot, and I wriggle in my chair a little. I know she can see my dark circles. Insomnia hasn’t been kind to my complexion.

  “You should drink more green tea,” she tells me. “It’s good for your skin.”

  I nod. I’m scheduled to be on-air in thirty minutes, where I’ll be talking about the top five travel destinations for family vacations. I don’t want to be here. To be fair, no one forced me. My editor in chief offered to send the executive editor if I wasn’t ready. Ready. What does that even mean? One thing’s certain: I’ll never feel OK about anything ever again. So why not just jump back into the numbness of work, the hamster wheel of TV segments and heels and chunky necklaces?