by Sarah Jio
“Fine with me,” I say. “I walked everywhere in New York. I’m used to it.”
The little restaurant is nestled alongside Eastlake Avenue, and Alex holds the door open for me as soft jazz drifts out to the street. A three-piece band sits on a tiny stage in the dining room, and the saxophonist winks at me as the hostess makes her way over to greet us.
“Two for dinner,” Alex says.
The hostess smiles and shows us to a table by the window. I look around the dining room, and I can see that Alex is right. A couple leans over a tiny table across the room. He’s wearing cargo shorts and sandals, and her denim skirt is frayed at the edge. It’s not New York, but I can see how I could come to appreciate this lack of pretense.
“The gnocchi is amazing here,” he says. “Same with the eggplant, and the pumpkin ravioli. Basically the whole menu.”
I smile. “I love rustic Italian. My husband came from a big Italian food family.” I watch Alex’s face carefully for any signs that he may be put off by the subject, but instead he leans in closer with interest.
“I bet he had one of those amazing Italian grandmothers whose kitchen always smells like garlic and basil and tomatoes simmering.”
“Yeah,” I say. “His nonna.” The waitress deposits a glass of Chianti before me, and I take a sip, marveling that I don’t feel the least bit uncomfortable talking about James with Alex.
“How about you?” I ask. “Did you grow up in a food family?”
“No—that is, if you don’t mean Twinkies and bologna sandwiches.”
“Me, too,” I say. “Children of the eighties. It’s no wonder we all haven’t come down with cancer by now.” I grin at him from across the table. “So what do your parents think of your new career photographing food?”
His expression changes then. It’s less engaged and more closed off. “It’s a long story,” he says, before taking a sip of his sparkling water. “I—”
“It’s OK,” I say. I respect his privacy, just as he respects mine. We’ll share our pasts when we’re ready. And now may not be the time.
The waitress brings over an antipasto plate, and I pop a kalamata olive in my mouth. Its deep, sharp flavor lures me back to Sunday morning brunch in Nonna Santorini’s warm New York City kitchen.
Ten years prior
Nonna Santorini places a bowl of steaming hot pasta in front of me. The noodles are handmade; so is the sauce. She uses only San Marzano tomatoes, grown in the terra-cotta pots on her balcony. She cans them each fall to have enough for sauces through the rest of the year. “You like Parmigiano-Reggiano?” she asks, wielding a block of white cheese and a grater.
“Yes, please,” I say.
James winks at me and refills my wineglass.
“We must fatten her up if she make you baby,” Nonna says to James.
My cheeks redden.
“You hear that, Ada?” James says, elbowing me lightly. “Nonna wants great-grandchildren.”
I smile and take a bite. It’s my first time meeting James’s grandmother, and I instantly love her. She’s short and stout and beautiful. Her silky gray hair is pulled back into a bun, and she wears a white apron around her waist. Everything about her is warm. Her kitchen. Her smile. Her embrace. Her heart. I decide that when I’m seventy-five years old, I want to be exactly like her.
“Do you like the food?” she asks, pushing the pasta bowl closer to me. “Have more!”
“Thank you,” I say. “I will.”
“James, dear,” she says. “Go out to the fire escape and get a log to add to the fire.”
He sets his napkin on the table and stands up obediently.
“You want babies?” Nonna asks after James has left the room.
“Yes,” I say, a little startled. “At least I think so.”
“Good,” she says, pleased. “You make happy babies.”
My cheeks redden, and I can’t tell if it’s just from the wine or the fact that I’m talking to my boyfriend’s grandmother about, well, sex.
“He loves you,” Nonna continues, smiling to herself. “The way he looks at you. There is much love in his eyes.” She kisses the gold locket around her neck. “So much love.”
“You OK?” Alex asks.
“Yes,” I say, nodding quickly. “Sorry. I was just thinking . . . it’s just that this restaurant reminds me of . . .”
“Memories,” he says.
I nod.
The band begins playing a soft melody. It’s something by Stan Getz, but I can’t remember the name of the song. I look at Alex sitting across the table, so kind, so gentle. I want to tell him, now. I want to tell him everything.
But just as I open my mouth, he does too.
“I have to tell you something,” he says. “About me.”
And instead of speaking, I listen.
Chapter 15
PENNY
I hear a beeping sound as I open my eyes. Where am I? I look up and see white walls. Everything’s white. A woman in a white dress, a nurse, hovers over me. “Morning, sugar,” she says, taking my wrist to check my pulse. “My, your husband will be happy to see you. We were worried there for a sec. I’ll just go get him.”
Is Dex here? I imagine how frightened he must have been to see me in this hospital bed. My eyes fill with tears. What happened? My head hurts; I reach my hand up to my temple and there’s a bandage.
The door opens and the nurse walks through the door again, this time with Collin.
“Darling!” he says, rushing to my side.
“I don’t understand,” I say. “I thought—”
“I thought I lost you,” he says, kissing my forehead. His face says “Play along,” so I do.
“Doctor Hanson is on his way in to see you,” the nurse chirps. “So sit tight with your husband now.”
I nod as she walks through the door. “What happened? Why does she think you’re my husband?”
“When I brought you here last night, they just assumed,” he says. “And then I realized that they don’t let anyone but family into this wing, so I had to lie.”
“Where’s Dexter?” I ask.
“I don’t know.” He looks uncomfortable, and it’s obvious he’s keeping information from me.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“Well, I went to find him. In Pioneer Square.” He rubs his forehead. “He wasn’t there, Penny.”
“I don’t understand,” I say. “Maybe he just stepped out. He’s probably with a client, or maybe he came home. Did you check the houseboat? Surely he’s there.”
Collin sees that I’m getting upset. He squeezes my hand. “I’m sure I just missed him,” he says. “I’m sure once he finds out what happened, he’ll be here as soon as possible.”
I nod. “Am I going to be OK?”
“Yes,” he says quickly. “You hit your head pretty bad, though. You almost drowned. They wanted to keep you for observation.”
“And you saved me?”
“Well, that was the easy part,” he says with a slow smile.
I hear the door open again, and this time a man in a white jacket appears. “Mrs. Wentworth, I’m Doctor Hanson,” he says. “You got a pretty bad bump on the head.”
“I hope nothing permanent,” I say.
“Well, no,” he replies. “But you may have some memory problems in the next week or so.” He looks down at a clipboard and scribbles something down before handing Collin a piece of paper. “I’ve prescribed pain pills. She’ll need them for the next few days.”
He nods, and tucks the paper in his pocket.
The doctor smiles. “Mr. Wentworth, I must say, when I saw your wife’s name on the list of patients, I hoped to have the chance to meet you. My wife’s such a fan. We have one of your paintings hanging in our living room.”
“Oh, I—” Collin fumbles.
“This is not Dexter,” I finally say.
Dr. Hanson shakes his head in confusion. “I don’t understand. The nurse said he—”
“His name is Co
llin,” I say. “He’s a friend.”
“Oh, right,” Dr. Hanson replies. “I see.”
The door closes before I can say anything else. “He’s judging me,” I say. “He thinks—”
“Who cares what he thinks?” Collin says with a smile.
There’s a knock at the door, and I smile when I see Mama standing there. “Darling!” she cries. “I came as soon as I could.”
“Oh, Mama,” I cry. “Please don’t worry. I’m fine.”
She dabs a handkerchief to her eye, then looks up at Collin. “Who’s this?”
“This is my friend, Collin. He saved my life.”
Mama kisses his cheek. “Thank you, dear,” she says, before turning back to me. “Where’s Dex?”
“I don’t know. Collin tried to find him. He wasn’t in his studio.”
Collin clears his throat and walks closer to my bed. He adjusts the cord of my IV, which has gotten caught on the bed rail. “She’s had a concussion,” he explains to Mama. “I think the best thing for her is rest. Are you able to stay with her today?”
Mama looks panicked. “Oh dear, it nearly took an act of Congress for my boss to let me sneak away today,” she says. “I could be here tonight, after my shift—”
“Don’t worry,” Collin says, smiling calmly. “I will stay with her.”
Mama looks at Collin. She doesn’t say anything, and I can tell she’s wondering who he is, wondering how he’s come to be a part of my life.
“Well,” Collin says, breaking the silence. “I’m going to step out for a cup of coffee. I’ll let you two catch up.”
When the door closes, Mama sits in the chair beside the bed. “Be careful with that one, my water baby,” she says.
I shake my head. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean.”
She sighs. “That boy loves you, Penny. And if I’m not mistaken, I think you love him, too.”
“Mama, that’s nonsense. He’s just a friend.”
She reaches for her bag and pulls out a ball of yarn. We sit together without saying anything else. The only sound in the room is her turquoise knitting needles clicking together, and the beating of my heart, when I think about what she’s just said.
Chapter 16
ADA
The waitress brings out our entrées, but I hardly notice, absorbed as I am in Alex’s story. When he begins to speak, all I can do is listen intently to the words that cross his lips.
“I was married shortly before I began my work in Sudan,” he says. “To a wonderful woman who loved me. But she didn’t happen to love my line of work. And for good reason. I was gone eight months out of the year in war zones. I’d go months without calling her. She always said I wasn’t married to her but to my work. And she was right. I was. You have to be when your work is so intense. I guess I expected her to get that. But she couldn’t.” He shakes his head. “She never could.”
“So what happened?” I ask cautiously.
“I gave it up for her,” he says. “I quit and came home. But I resented her for it. That first year stateside was a dark time for me, partly because we worked together—the business arrangement wasn’t a healthy one—and partly because I was going through some of my own issues. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was suffering from some serious post-traumatic stress from my time in Sudan. I thought I could just jump back into regular life, but it doesn’t work that way. The brain needs time to work through what it’s seen. And I saw some ugly things.”
“Understandably so,” I say. “Surely she understood the difficulty of the transition.”
“No,” he says. “She expected more of me. I started drinking again, and with my family’s history of alcoholism, that was dangerous behavior. Don’t get me wrong, there were moments of happiness. I tried. She tried. I got sober. I even saw a therapist for a while. But in the end, I couldn’t shake my demons. So on the morning of Thanksgiving nine years ago, I woke up and she was gone. She left a note on the kitchen counter, changed her cell phone number, started a whole new life. A month later I was served with divorce papers, and I signed them. If she wanted out, I wasn’t going to stop her. I’d already made her life miserable.” He rubs his brow and looks up at me cautiously. “But she kept something from me,” he says. “Something I could never forgive her for. But I’ve come to—” His phone suddenly rings from inside his vest pocket, and he pulls it out and looks at the screen. I see something flash in his eyes, and he looks at me. “I’m so sorry, Ada. I have to take this.”
“I’ll wait here,” I say, still reeling from all he’s told me.
He steps away from the table to the nearby lobby, and I think about Kellie now in a whole new light. I actually feel sorry for her. He had the perfect marriage—an adoring, beautiful wife—and he threw it all away because he couldn’t get his act together. It’s a harsh way of looking at it, but it’s true. James would have fought for me. James would have figured out a way to make it work. But Alex is not James.
I try not to listen to Alex’s conversation. He’s only a few feet away, so I can make out bits and pieces of what he’s saying. I take a bite of my gnocchi, and my ears can’t help but listen in. “Kellie, please don’t,” he says. “You know I didn’t mean that. . . . Why must you put this on me?” He listens for a long moment, and then his frown turns to a smile. “Oh, honey, I’m here. I love you.”
My eyes shoot wide open. It’s so sorely obvious that he’s still in love with her. How foolish I’ve been to think that he could care for me when his heart belongs to Kellie. I pull two crisp twenty-dollar bills from my wallet and set them on the table beside my napkin, and before he gets off the phone, I weave my way through the dining room to the back door.
Tears sting my eyes as I run down the hill to Boat Street. I race down the dock, just as rain begins to fall overhead. I jam my key into the lock and close the door behind me. The raindrops hit the lake outside in steady succession, like my tears. And when I hear Alex knocking softly on my door ten minutes later, I don’t open it. This was a mistake. All of this was a mistake.
Chapter 17
PENNY
Careful,” Collin says as we step down to the dock. He reaches for my hand and I let him take it.
My head hurts a little, but other than that I feel all right. “I’ll bet Dex is home now,” I say.
He walks me down the dock, and I’m glad that Naomi and Gene aren’t home and relieved that Jimmy isn’t milling about. I wouldn’t want to worry him, nor would I want to explain myself to his mother.
I know Dex isn’t inside the houseboat even before we step up to the front door. He always leaves his shoes on the doormat, right beside the shriveled geraniums in the flowerpot. But his shoes aren’t there. I’m relieved, but I’m also a little sad.
“I don’t know where he is,” I say to Collin tearfully. I didn’t expect my voice to quiver like it does.
“There, now,” he says, patting my arm. “Let’s get you inside.”
He walks me to the davenport, where I lean back against the cushions and prop my feet up against the armrest where Dex’s head has lain on so many quiet Saturday mornings.
Collin brings me a glass of water and a pill, and I doze off.
The light is bright when I open my eyes. My head pounds. I sit up, disoriented. “Dex!” I cry.
Instead, Collin appears. He’s coming from the kitchen, with a plate of cheese and sliced fruit. “Morning,” he says cheerfully. “How’d you sleep?”
“What time is it?”
“Eight,” he says with a smile. “You slept through the evening, right on to morning. You must have been exhausted.”
I rub my eyes and nod my head. “Thank you,” I say, “for staying.”
He passes me the cheese and fruit plate, and grins. “You talk in your sleep, you know.”
I take a bite of sliced apple. “Oh no, what did I say?”
“There was something about a boat,” he says, “which isn’t surprising, and a whole lot of other gibberish. But y
ou said my name.”
“I did?”
“Yes,” he says proudly. “I admit, I tried to eavesdrop, but I didn’t get very far.” He walks back to the kitchen and returns with two mugs. “Coffee?”
“Yes, thank you,” I say, sitting up.
“I hope you don’t mind that I stayed. I just didn’t feel right about leaving you here alone.”
I take a long sip before I speak again. “I keep thinking, what if I’d died out there on the lake? I would have been dead for two days now. Dex wouldn’t even know. Whenever he’d get around to coming home, whenever he could break away from his precious art, he’d come home and I wouldn’t be here.”
Collin looks at his feet, as though the very thought of Dex unnerves him, but he doesn’t share what he’s thinking. “Well, you’re OK, and that’s all that matters,” he finally says. “Now that you’re up, I’m going to go home and shower. I’ll be back this afternoon to check on you.”
In truth, I don’t need anyone to check on me. I bumped my head; I’ll recover. But I touch my hand to the bandage on my forehead and nod. I like that he wants to check on me. I like that someone wants to check on me. “Thank you,” I say softly. He beams back at me.
Three days pass, then four. Dex remains unreachable. If he’s at his studio, he’s not answering the phone, because when I call, it just rings endlessly. I decide that maybe he’s gone on a trip. Maybe he’s finally gone to that gallery in Paris where he was invited to exhibit his work. But would he really go to Paris without me? Without even telling me?
When Saturday comes, I am crestfallen. It’s the night of the Frank Sinatra concert. I call his studio four times. I don’t know why I keep trying; he never answers. But this time, someone picks up.
“Hello?” It’s a woman. She sounds young, younger than I am, perhaps.
“Oh,” I say quickly. “I must have the wrong number. I was trying to reach Dexter Wentworth.”
“Just a sec,” she says, setting the phone down.
Maybe she’s a model, I tell myself. Dex hires them from time to time to pose for him while he paints. I imagine she has long black wavy hair that hangs in front of her bare breasts. Her hips are round and her skin porcelain. Dex has her on the couch, the way he used to have me pose for him. I close my eyes, then set the phone back on the receiver.