The houseboat sways, and I look out to the lake and the sparkling lights of the city above. He tucks his hand in mine, briefly, before reaching for the newspaper. We are right next to each other, and yet, I have the overwhelming sensation that my husband is slipping away from me.
Chapter 6
ADA
By two, I’m starved, so I decide to visit the little market Jim told me about. Pete’s, I think. I walk up the dock, which is when I notice a pretty houseboat on the left, with white siding and window boxes that look as if they once held beautiful flowers. The place is clearly empty, because mail spills out of the weathered copper mailbox near the door. I kneel down to retrieve a letter that’s fallen to the ground and eye the address label: Esther Johnson. I tuck it back into the mailbox, and wonder who Esther is and whether she’s coming back to collect her mail.
The short walk to the market affords me a look at the docks that comprise the floating enclave, and I look curiously down the wooden moorings. Each seems to have its own personality. Some are quirky and artsy, with houses painted bright colors and wind chimes clanging in the light breeze; others are lined with expensive-looking modern homes, where Sub-Zero refrigerators and Viking ranges undoubtedly appear inside the gourmet kitchens. Regardless, however, the houseboat community, as a whole, feels like an ecosystem all its own. Rich, and brimming with a variety of life.
I cross the street when I see Pete’s Market ahead. Inside the little store, I grab a cart and wander from one aisle to the next. A half hour later, a clerk with a gray beard bags up a carton of milk, apples, bananas, bread, a block of cheddar cheese, eggs, carrots, five frozen meals, two chicken breasts, a container of basil, a head of garlic, a box of pasta, and a bottle of white wine. I notice he’s grinning at me as I swipe my credit card.
“New here?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, wondering if I have a sign on my back that reads, I’M FROM OUT OF TOWN, OBVIOUSLY!
“Staying on a houseboat?”
I nod.
“Which dock?”
“Boat Street,” I say.
“Ah, Boat Street,” he continues, raising an eyebrow. “One of my favorites. It has quite a history, you know.”
“Oh?” I say, taking the receipt.
He leans in as if he’s about to divulge a secret. “A lady went missing there a long time ago. Just disappeared one night. Cops never did figure out what happened to her. And if you ask me, the residents of Boat Street weren’t terribly helpful either.”
A woman with a full shopping cart clears her throat behind us. “Well,” I say. “Thank you, I—”
“Which houseboat did you say you’re living on?” he asks as I take two paper sacks into my hands.
“The last one on the slip,” I say.
His eyes widen. “That one was hers.”
It’s nine, and I should be tired, but I’m not; I’m restless. Insomnia strikes again. I slip into a pair of leggings and a nightshirt and walk out to the deck. It’s been a warm day, a rarity for June in Seattle, I hear. But now the sun is setting and there are dark clouds hovering overhead, waiting for the sun to dip behind the horizon so they can roll in and have their way with the city. I remember seeing a can of cocoa in the cabinet, so I head back to the kitchen and boil some milk in a pan on the stove, then mix in a generous scoop of the chocolate powder. I close my eyes and I can see her, my baby.
“Mama!” Ella says, barreling through the door with James following close behind. Her bunny hat, with the two pink ears, dangles from her neck. She’s missing one of her front teeth, and her cheeks are rosy and full of life. “Look what I made for you at school!” She hands me a painting and I smile. It’s the three of us—me, James, and Ella—standing in front of what looks like a gingerbread house. “It’s the North Pole,” she says. “Look,” she adds, pointing to a sleigh in the sky, “there’s Santa and Rudolph.”
I scoop her into my arms. She’s little for seven, still light enough for me to cradle her. “Oh, honey, I adore it.” Her cheeks feel cold. “Let’s get you warmed up,” I say. “Hot chocolate?”
She claps her hands. “Yeah!”
“It’s supposed to snow tonight,” James adds, planting a kiss on my cheek. His lips are cold. “It’s already in the twenties out there.”
I frown. “Do you still think Santa will be able to come?”
“Of course,” he says. “Santa has four-wheel drive.”
I smile. Even though James has lived in New York for the past fifteen years, he grew up in Montana and spent his formative years helping his parents on their ranch. They still don’t understand how he can be happy going from wide-open spaces to a cramped city, but they’re proud of him, exceedingly proud. James excelled in college, graduating from Harvard with honors and landing an internship at the Washington Post, which led to an editorial assistant position at the New York Times, where he eventually became a travel writer. But when Ella came along, he decided to give it all up and stay home with her. It wasn’t easy coming to that decision, but I’d just been named features editor at Sunrise, and my paycheck was almost double what James was making at the newspaper. It just made sense.