The smoky sound of Stan Getz’s saxophone wafts through the speakers. “Oh, goody,” Naomi says in a childlike voice. “Someone’s finally put on some decent dancing music.” She takes Collin’s hand and clumsily attaches it to my waist. “You two are the youngest people here; you must dance.”
Collin flashes me an apologetic smile. “It’s a party,” I whisper. “Let’s dance.”
He pulls me a little closer, as if my words have put him at ease. I feel everyone’s eyes on me. Leanne smiles at me, but I look away quickly. I search the room. I don’t see Dex. Or Naomi or Gene. Collin dances well. I hardly have to think about my feet, so I don’t. I don’t think about anything. And when his eyes catch mine, they lock for a moment, and I feel a flicker inside me that I cannot ignore.
Chapter 8
ADA
I’m having coffee on the deck when Jim peers around the corner. “Sorry, am I disturbing you?” He’s a friendly man, but there’s something a little off about him. Sad, maybe. He’s one of those people whose smiles can’t hide everything beneath the surface. Maybe that’s why I like him so much.
“No,” I say. “Of course not.”
He hands me a card that looks like it’s been printed on an inkjet printer. The edges run with blue ink. “Mother insists on doing these invitations every year,” he says.
I look it over:
SAVE THE DATE
The Annual Boat Street Bach on the Dock Party
July 30th at 6 p.m.
BYOB
“‘Bach on the Dock’? That’s cute.”
Jim shrugs. “It’s been going on as long as I can remember. We used to have a full quartet. But one by one, they died or moved away. Dad’s the only musician left. He plays the violin.”
“Oh,” I say. “I thought I heard violin music the other day. It must have been your father.”
“Yeah,” Jim continues. “I’m so thankful that he has his music. His eyesight has deteriorated, so he doesn’t have his books anymore. Of course, he can’t see the sheet music anymore either. But he’s stored it all up.” He points to his head. “He plays from memory.”
“That’s amazing,” I say.
“Dementia’s an awful disease. He seems fine one moment, and the next he’s addressing me as if I’m a colleague from the English department. It’s hard on Mother. He’s brought up things she’d just as well forget.” He shrugs. “His mind is completely unpredictable.”
“Sorry,” I say. “It must be so hard for all of you.”
He shrugs again. “Anyway, Mother wanted to be sure you knew you were invited.”
“Thank you,” I reply, smiling. “Have you found her?”
He gives me a confused look.
“Henrietta,” I remind him.
“Oh, no. She hasn’t come home yet.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. How’s Haines?”
“Terrible,” he replies. “He won’t eat.”
“I’ll keep an eye out for her,” I say, turning to my back door. “Well, please thank your mother for the invitation.”
Jim smiles as if struck with sudden inspiration. “Why don’t you come over and meet her? It will do her a world of good. Dad’s having a bad day, and, well, when he’s having a bad day, she’s having a bad day.”
“Are you sure?” I ask. “I haven’t showered. I’m not exactly—”
“Mom has cataracts,” he says. “To her you’ll look like Angelina Jolie.”
I smile and follow him up the dock. I notice a green vine that has wrapped itself around the edge of the dock, its white flowers craning up toward the morning sun. “That vine,” I say, turning to Jim. “What is it? I’ve never seen anything like it in New York.”
“Morning glory,” he replies. “Kind of pretty, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I say, kneeling down to touch one of its delicate white flowers.
“Mother doesn’t think so. In the old days she’d never let the morning glory grow like this. She’d be out here pulling them out by the root. It was her thing.”
I think for a moment about why people pick a person, place, or thing to have a vendetta against. For my dad it was gas stations. He always said they were cheating him. He’d eye the pump suspiciously, sure that the meter was lying to him. Joanie has a thing about baristas. She was convinced that a college kid behind the counter on Tuesday mornings was spiking her venti nonfat latte with decaf and whole milk just to spite her, which made her suspicious of all baristas and is ultimately the reason why I refuse to visit cafés with her. I stifle a laugh as I remember the time we had a tense exchange with a manager at a Midtown Manhattan Starbucks. Oh, Joanie.