by Sarah Jio
Then he reached out and took my chin gently in his hand, tilting my profile into the moonlight. He ran his hands down my neck until they reached the edge of my sweater, sending a tingly feeling down my arms. He opened the neckline until my collarbones were exposed, as well as a hint of my camisole. I felt the cold air brush my skin, but I didn’t shiver. Jack may have put this move on all the women he brought to his house—the dinner, the dog, the portrait—but I let my inner cynic slip away.
“Perfect,” he said. “Now, sit there for just a second.”
I felt quivery and limp, but I managed to hold the pose while Jack sat across from me, sketching furiously. Then he stood up and showed me his drawing.
“Wow,” I said. “I mean, it’s really good—it’s so . . . realistic.” As a child, I had my portrait sketched by a street artist in Portland. My nose had looked contorted and my mouth too big. But Jack—he drew me.
He carefully detached the sketch from the book and set it on an easel.
We walked back to the house, where deep burnt umber flames flickered in the fireplace. Jack started up his CD player.
“Since I had to run off so quickly last night, I thought we could continue our dance tonight,” he said, reaching for my hand.
I was instantly charmed by the old-fashioned gesture. The last time I’d been asked to dance—outside of the prom, of course—I was seventeen, dating a guy two years older who was the lead guitarist in a garage punk rock band. We slow-danced to the Ramones for an incredibly romantic five minutes, until his dad came home from work.
Jack pushed the coffee table aside, leading me to the center of the living room. As he did, a soft big-band orchestra began to play the most beautiful melody.
“It’s an old recording of one of my favorite jazz songs,” he said, pulling me close to him. “Do you know it?”
I hesitated.
“‘Body and Soul,’” he said. “It’s one of the most beautiful love songs ever written.”
The hair on my arms stood on end.
“Do you know it?” he asked, sensing my reaction.
I nodded. “Body and Soul”? As in Esther and Elliot’s song? I couldn’t be certain if I’d ever heard it before that moment, and yet the melody, the lyrics—I knew it instantly. Of course it was their song. It was haunting and hopeful at the same time. It was made for them.
Jack held me close, so close I could feel his breath on my neck and the firmness of the muscles in his back. He let his lips brush the side of my forehead, as our bodies swayed to the music.
“Girls like you don’t wash up on this beach every day,” he whispered as the song ended.
We both looked toward the beach, where the waves were crashing into the shore, and Jack suddenly seemed concerned. “The tide’s getting high,” he said. “I better walk you home.”
I nodded, hiding my disappointment. I didn’t want to go. Not yet.
When we arrived at Bee’s doorstep, he smiled and said, “I have to go to Seattle, but I’ll be back in a few days. I’ll call you then.” I tried not to parse his words for deeper meaning.
“Good night,” I said. And that was that.
I sulked as I crawled into bed, and I told myself I had no reason. It had been a wonderful night. He had called me special. Special. What had I expected? A profession of love? Ridiculous, I told myself. I pulled the diary out of the nightstand, but could feel exhaustion in every bone of my body, so I put it back. And as I drifted off, I couldn’t help but feel that I was abandoning Esther, leaving her there alone on those pages to figure out her own problems, to fend for herself. Yet I, too, was fending, in the midst of my own new story.
Chapter 8
March 6
“Want to go into Seattle today?” Bee asked over breakfast. That’s how people on Bainbridge Island talked about Seattle, as a total immersion experience.
“Why don’t you ask Evelyn to come with us?” I suggested. Time was short, though Bee didn’t know it.
Bee placed the call. “Why don’t you join us today in Seattle? We’re catching the ten a.m. ferry to do some shopping. We’d love for you to come.”
Two seconds later it was a done deal. Evelyn met us at the ferry terminal, which was reminiscent of a train station, with panoramic views of the water and an espresso stand to satisfy a craving for, say, a tall split-shot mocha, as I had. Bainbridge Islanders frequently walked onto the ferry, leaving their cars tucked cozily away in the terminal parking lot. Since the boat discharged passengers in the heart of the city, there was no need to drive a car, even if getting around meant climbing a few hills. Even in their eighties, these women wouldn’t dream of forgoing a city walk for a cab.
Evelyn wore khaki capris, a black boat-neck sweater, and simple ballet flats. “Thanks for saving me from another dull day with the cats,” she said.
I smiled. It occurred to me that she didn’t look like a person with a terminal illness. She still had her hair—a wig? I wondered. Her cheeks shone with color, which could have been courtesy of makeup. But it was mostly that she didn’t act sick. While the cancer may have ravaged her body, Evelyn would not let it take her spirit.
“So, what’s the plan for the day?” I asked as we made our way onto the ferry. Among the first to board, we secured a coveted booth closest to the front of the boat, where views of Seattle’s skyline were the best.
“Well,” said Bee, making herself comfortable on the vinyl bench seat, “we’ll hit Westlake Center, of course, and then there’s this delightful little bistro on Marion Street where I thought we could have lunch.”
Marion Street. Isn’t that the street in the book where Esther ended her relationship with Elliot for good? I thought about the gorgeous ring she’d chucked into a storm drain and shook my head. It seemed like such a waste, such an impulsive thing to do. But then again, she’d had her reasons.
I remembered by name the Landon Park Hotel, the place where the tragic scene had transpired. Perhaps Bee, or whoever was the true author, had used historical reference points. I was eager to see if the old hotel still existed, or had ever existed.
“Anyone feel like clam chowder?” Bee said, standing up. She always ordered clam chowder on the ferry, no matter what time it was, no matter that the passage lasted a mere half hour.
“Not for me,” Evelyn said.
“I’ll have some, if you’re heading to the cafeteria,” I said. Bee nodded approvingly and walked away.
As soon as Bee was out of earshot, I turned to Evelyn. “How are you feeling?”
“I’ve had better days.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, suddenly feeling guilty that Evelyn’s accepting my invitation was depriving her of rest.
“Hah,” she said. “Not for me, thanks. I’d rather feel sick in Seattle with the two of you than feel sick in bed at home.”
I nodded. “When are you planning on telling her?”
Evelyn looked concerned. “Soon.”
“I’m getting worried,” I said, “about how she’s going to take the news.”
Evelyn looked down at her hands, so tightly clasped together that I could see the little blue veins poking out. “I’m worried too, dear.”
I looked out the window and then back at Evelyn. “It’s just that as far as I know, you’re the only real friend Bee has.”
She nodded. “Are you still reading that diary?”
“Yes,” I said. “I can hardly set it down.”
She peered down the walkway to see if Bee was returning. “We don’t have much time,” she said. “I won’t be here much longer. But I need you to know something: This story you’re reading, it holds many secrets—ones that could change life today. For you. For your aunt. For others.”
“I wish you could just tell me what this is all about,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound too impatient.
“I’m sorry, dear,” she said. “This is your journey.”
As we moved into open water, I felt time stand still. “Evelyn,” I said, looking up from the window. �
�Did you know my grandma?”
She studied my face for a while before answering. “Yes, dear, I did.”
“Maybe you know, then,” I said, “what Bee told my mother about Grandma Jane that caused such a rift in the family.”
Evelyn nodded. “She told your mother the startling truth about your grandmother,” she said.
“Startling?”
“Yes,” she replied. “But, Emily, it doesn’t have to end this way for your family.”
“Evelyn, what does that mean?”
“You can fix things, Emily,” she said. “You can bring the story the closure it needs.”
I ran my fingers through my hair and sighed. “It’s like I’m trying to put together a jigsaw puzzle, and everyone is hiding the pieces from me.”
“Be patient,” Evelyn said quietly. “You’ll find your answers in time. It’s the island’s way.”
I could see Bee making her way back to our booth. “Here we are,” she said, returning to her seat. “One clam chowder for you.”
“Thanks,” I said, opening up a package of saltine crackers and dunking one into the creamy hot soup.
“Evelyn,” Bee said, “where’s your appetite? You always have chowder on the ferry.”
I shot Evelyn a look as if to say, “Now is the right time. Tell her.” But she kept her poker face. “I had a huge breakfast this morning; I guess this old stomach of mine just isn’t what it used to be.”
“Well,” she replied, “we’re having lunch in a few hours, so it’s not like you’ll starve.”
“So,” Bee said cautiously, turning to me. “How was last night at Jack’s?”
Evelyn’s face lit up. “Jack Evanston?”
“Yes, Jack Evanston,” I said.
Evelyn and Bee exchanged a significant look.
“We’re two old women who haven’t had a date in several decades, Emily,” said Evelyn. “Give us a little nugget.”
“Well, he cooked dinner,” I continued. “Can you believe that? A man who can cook. And he showed me his paintings.”
Bee grimaced and looked out the window at the water, but Evelyn ignored her. “The evening sounds like a dream. Did you enjoy yourself?”
“I did,” I said. “But I was wondering, with all the visits I made to the island as a child, why didn’t I ever meet Jack? I never saw him on the beach.”
Evelyn opened her mouth to explain, but Bee cut her off. “Whatever happened to Greg?” she asked.
“Good heavens,” Evelyn said, “you have two men chasing after you?”
“She does,” Bee said.
Evelyn glowed with nostalgia. “Oh, to be young again.”
Just then the ferry’s horn sounded, announcing our arrival into Seattle. Energized by the other riders’ eagerness to disembark, we walked quickly along the gangway and down the stairs that led to the sidewalk lined with cabs, panhandlers, and pigeons pecking around for crumbs.
Once we reached the crosswalk, Evelyn took a deep breath. “Ah,” she said. “I’ve missed that scent.”
It was the same ferryboat-engine-seawater-city smell I’d come to love, but on the Seattle side it was accented by fried fish from the restaurants along the piers.
“Do you ever regret moving back, Evelyn?” Bee said suddenly.
Evelyn looked at me instead of at Bee, as if to fill me in. “Emily, when my husband died ten years ago, I moved back to Bainbridge. But I had spent my entire married life here in the city—up a ways, on Capitol Hill.”
“I’m sorry about your husband,” I said. “You must have so many memories here of him.”
“Yes,” she said. “I do. But the island has always been my home.”
We walked in silence up three hills until we came to Marion Street. I held Evelyn’s elbow to support her, something Bee would have done had she known about her friend’s illness.
“Ah,” Bee said. “We’re here.” She pointed to a restaurant across the street called Talulah’s. “Let’s sit down. I could use a rest after that walk.”
I nodded, and Evelyn quickly agreed.
Inside, the restaurant was cheerful and bright, with its sunshine-colored walls and daffodils in little etched-glass vases on each table. With the exception of a man having coffee and a sandwich at a far table, we were the only people in the place.
It was eleven a.m.—a bit early for lunch, but just the right time for mimosas. Evelyn ordered a round. And by the time we finished our second, we all felt happy, not to mention hungry. Despite the clam chowder on the boat, I guiltlessly ordered a burger.
“So,” Bee said after the waitress had cleared our plates. “Where to next?”
I looked out the window and onto Marion Street. “Why don’t we take a walk along Marion? That will get us to Westlake Center, right?”
“Sure,” Bee said.
She paid the bill and the three of us walked out onto the sidewalk. As we passed each building, I looked up for the hotel, the one where Esther had seen Elliot with the other woman. There must have been forty-five Starbucks, but no Landon Park Hotel. And then something caught my eye: a brick building just as Esther had described—with two bold-looking columns in front. And there was a newspaper dispenser nearby too. Coincidence? Then the kicker: About fifty feet away was a storm drain. I froze for a moment. It had to be the place. I needed to see for myself, fiction or not.
“Emily?” Bee said, turning around to see what I was doing standing there, motionless, on the sidewalk. “Why are you stopping here? Do you see a shop you want to go into, dear?”
Without looking at Bee, I shook my head. “I just want to check the newspaper headlines,” I lied, running across the street in haste, nearly missing a gray sedan. The displeased driver sounded a honk.
And there, on the other side of the road, was the building. It had to be the hotel. “Excuse me,” I said to the elderly doorman. “Is this the Landon Park Hotel?”
He looked at me with wide eyes. “Landon Park?” He shook his head. “Why, no, this is the Washington Athletic Club.”
“Right,” I said. “Of course.”
I turned to walk back, this time using the sidewalk.
“Wait, miss,” he called out.
“This used to be the Landon Park Hotel, but not since the nineteen fifties, when the place nearly burned down.”
“Really?” I said, grinning.
He nodded. “It was completely gutted.”
I thanked him and glanced across the street to where Bee and Evelyn were standing. They both looked confused, especially Bee.
“I’ll be right there,” I shouted, pretending to be looking at the newspaper machine, but I was really soaking in the spot where Elliot and Esther’s troubles had begun. Standing there made the story feel that much more real, even if they were only figments of someone’s daydreams a lifetime ago.
We skipped the shopping trip and caught the two o’clock ferry. I faked a headache for Evelyn’s sake; I could see that she wasn’t doing well. She looked pale and fatigued. I knew she needed to rest, but I also knew she wouldn’t admit it.
Bee headed to her bedroom for a nap, and I did too. But I didn’t plan on sleeping.
I could hear the phone ringing in the kitchen. Busy in the bathroom, where I was bathing the baby, I decided that the caller could wait. But the phone kept ringing persistently, until I’d rung out the washcloth and wrapped her in a little blue terrycloth towel that Bobby’s mother had given us. She’d been hoping for a boy.
“Hello?” I finally answered. I didn’t mask the annoyance in my voice.
It was Frances. “Esther, you’re not going to believe it.” Her voice sounded choked up, excited, panicky—all at once.
“Slow down and tell me,” I said, adjusting the baby so I could hold the phone more comfortably.
“It’s Elliot,” she said. When she said his name, I nearly fell to my knees.
“No, no, Frances,” I said. “Don’t tell me. I can’t bear to hear it.”
“No,” she said quickly. “H
e’s alive. He’s fine. And he’s home! He’s home from the war.”
Tears began to well in my eyes. “How do you know this?”
She paused for a minute, as if considering whether to tell me the full truth or the partial version. “Well,” she said finally, “because he was here.”
“Where?”
“At my house,” she said. “He just left.”
“What on earth was he doing there?”
I could sense Frances stiffening, and tension swelled within me. I was apprehensive about their friendship, and I couldn’t hide it. “Frances,” I continued. “What was he doing there?”
“Esther, I don’t know what you’re implying,” she said defensively. “He knows I love photography so he gave me an album with some photos he took in the South Pacific. They’re beautiful. You should come see them—coconut trees, beaches, the people he encountered.”
I formed my right hand into a tight fist. “Why would he give you a gift?”
“What kind of question is that?” Frances said, sounding hurt. “Let’s not forget that we’re old friends too, Esther. It was simply a kind gesture.”
“And what about me?” I said. “Am I not a friend?”
“Esther, you’re married with a child,” she said a little more bluntly than I had expected. “He doesn’t exactly feel welcome on your doorstep.”
The anger was building now, stirring up years of emotions that I’d tried to ignore. “You’ve always put him above our friendship,” I said bitterly. “You’ve always wanted him for yourself.”