“I haven’t seen Dex home in a while,” Naomi says. I hear the curiosity in her voice. “I suppose he’s staying at his studio these days?”
I don’t like that she calls him Dex. That’s what I call him. But I smile and nod, thinking of my husband in his studio in Pioneer Square. He rented it shortly after New Year’s, and it seemed like a good idea at the time, especially since his canvases and easels were threatening to take over the living room. But I didn’t anticipate how much time he’d be spending away and how lonely I’d feel. “Yes,” I say, feigning confidence, “he’s getting so much work done there. I hate to disturb him, you know.”
Naomi makes a face and points to the potted flowers near the front door of her houseboat. “Just look at that,” she says, as if something upsetting has happened.
She reaches into one of the pots and pulls out a green vine, a few feet long, with several bell-shaped white flowers. “There,” she says with a vindicated look in her eye, as if this vine has wronged her in some way.
“What is it?” I ask.
She flashes a patronizing smile. “An invasive weed,” she says, tossing the vine into the lake. I watch the little white flowers flutter in the water. I want to kneel down and rescue them from drowning. “Morning glory,” Naomi continues, shaking her head. “It’ll take over if you let it.”
I watch as the vine drifts away on the lake. The little flowers bob up and down as if gasping for air. I consider that the vine might find its way to shore and wash up on a patch of soil, where it will start a new existence, maybe sink its roots and thrive. Maybe Naomi has set it free.
I think of the bluebells that grew in my mother’s garden when I was a child. Weeds, really. But I’d pick them by the handful, and when bunched together they looked stunning.
“Weeds can be so pretty sometimes,” I say.
“Pretty?” Naomi snorts. She blows a strand of her dark hair out of her eyes and smirks. “Weeds aren’t pretty, my dear.”
“Right,” I say as Naomi’s husband, Gene, peers out the door. They’re an unlikely match. He’s quiet; she’s outspoken. He’s warm; she’s not. And yet, it’s clear by the way he looks at her that he is deeply in love with this woman, for reasons I may never be able to understand. “Sweetheart,” he says, “I was just making an omelet. Care for one?” He notices me and waves. “Oh, hello, Penny. I can put one on for you if you like.”
Naomi’s cold gaze isn’t exactly welcoming, so I shake my head. “Thank you, Gene; I already ate.” He’s easy to like, with his receding hairline and unpretentious ways. He teaches English literature at the University of Washington and often leaves novels on my doorstep.
“Did you read the last one?” he asks. Naomi acts disinterested, the way she always does when she’s not directing the conversation.
I nod. “Yes, Hemingway. It was good. I’d like to go to Paris someday. I’ll bring it back later this afternoon—”
“It’s yours to keep,” Gene says with a smile. “Everyone needs Hemingway on their bookshelf. In fact, I have another of his I think you’ll also like. I’ll drop it by sometime.”
“Thanks,” I say.
Naomi walks toward him and straightens his tie. “Gene, you mustn’t wear plaid shirts. They look so hodgepodge.”
He kisses her on the forehead and smiles obediently. “Yes, dear.” Then he asks, “Did you find Jimmy?”
“No,” she says, rolling her eyes. “That child.”
Gene frowns. “I worry we’re being too hard on him.”
Naomi rolls her eyes. “You realize he’s flunking the second grade, don’t you?”
“Well, I’d better be going,” I say, feeling awkward to be overhearing a parental disagreement.
Gene waves and turns back to the house.
“Wait,” Naomi says, following me. “I must speak to you about Jimmy.”
I think of him huddled in a ball behind my home. I should tell her he’s there, but I don’t. I decide to give him a little more time.
“We’re going to be keeping him in on the weekends,” she says with a stern expression that reminds me of my fifth-grade teacher, the one who spanked my bottom so severely, I developed a bruise the size of a saucer. “Gene and I think it’s best that he spends less time with . . . well, less time near your houseboat.”
“Oh,” I say, a little wounded. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
Naomi’s smile returns, but it looks stiff and plastered on. “It’s nothing you’ve done, dear,” she says. “It’s just that we think he needs more supervision. We’ve hired a tutor, and he’ll be seeing a new psychiatrist to address some of his issues.”