Morning Glory(3)

I look away.

“Where will you go?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” I say. “Somewhere far from here.”

He leans back in his chair and scratches his head before clasping his hands together. “My daughter has a friend in Seattle who owns a houseboat, and it’s for rent,” he says suddenly.

“A houseboat?” I furrow my brow slightly. “Like that movie with Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan?”

“Yes,” he says, digging a card out of his desk drawer. “She was here visiting and mentioned that my wife and I should come stay.”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I was kind of thinking of someplace warm. Doesn’t it rain a lot there?”

“You know what they say about rain,” he says with a smile. “God’s tears.”

“So I won’t be crying alone,” I say, half-smiling.

He hands me the card, and I read the name Roxanne Wentworth. “Thanks,” I say, tucking it in my pocket as I stand up.

“Remember what I said,” Dr. Evinson reminds me, pointing to his chest. I nod, but I pray that he’s wrong, because I know I can’t bear to feel this way much longer. My heart can’t take much more.



The phone rings once, then twice. I consider hanging up. Suddenly this idea of mine seems crazy. Leave my job? Move to Seattle? To a houseboat? My finger hovers over the End Call button, but then a cheerful voice answers. “Ms. Wentworth’s office, how may I help you?”

“Yes,” I say, fumbling to find my voice. “Yes, this is, um, my name is Ada Santorini, and I’m calling to inquire about . . . the houseboat for rent.”

“Santorini,” the woman says. “What a beautiful name. I knew a family with that last name when I studied abroad in Milan. You must be Italian?”

“No,” I say quickly. “I mean, my husband was—I mean, listen, I’m sure you’ve already rented the houseboat.”

“No,” the woman says. “It’s available the first of the month. It’s absolutely charming, though I’m sure you already know as you’ve seen the photos online.”

“Photos?”

“Yes,” she says, reading me a Web site address, which I quickly key into my computer. My office door is open and I hope the nosy intern in the cubicle outside isn’t listening.

“Wow,” I say, scrolling through the images on my screen. “It’s . . . really cute.”

Maybe Dr. Evinson is wrong. Maybe I can escape my pain. I feel my heart beating wildly inside my chest as an e-mail from my editor in chief pops up on my screen. “The Today segment was a hit. The producer wants you to share more tips on traveling with children. Be in studio for hair and makeup by five a.m. tomorrow.” My head is spinning a little. No. No, I can’t do this. Not anymore. “I would like to rent it,” I say suddenly.

“You would?” the woman asks. “But don’t you want to hear more details? We haven’t even talked about the rent.”

The nosy intern is standing in my doorway now. She’s holding the cover image of the August issue. A little girl and her mother are smiling, swinging in a hammock. “No,” I say immediately. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll take it.”





Chapter 2





I open my eyes, and for a moment I have no idea where I am, and the void is blissfully frightening. Then I hear the sound of the lake outside, and the scene comes into focus.

I’m on a couch draped with a stark white slipcover. My sandals are still strapped to my feet, and my large black suitcase is beside the door. I gaze around the houseboat as if seeing it for the first time. The clock says it’s quarter till six, nearly nine on the East Coast. This is a fact I find shocking, because I haven’t slept this late in years.

I stand up and walk to the little kitchen. Running my hand along the tile countertop, I find a brass key resting on top of a note written on Wentworth Real Estate letterhead. “Welcome to Seattle!” it reads. “Here’s an extra key. If you need anything, give us a call.” I tuck the key in my pocket and notice a coffeemaker. I pour fresh water into the tank and toss in a packet of pre-ground Starbucks Breakfast Blend, listening as the machine hisses and spurts.

I peek inside a cabinet and open a few drawers, happy to find all fully stocked. A set of well-worn pots and pans hang from hooks over the stove. Many meals have been cooked here. Wineglasses line an open shelf, champagne glasses on the next. I wonder about the people who have pressed their lips against them over the years, and I can almost hear them blowing noisemakers and shouting, “Happy New Year!” before huddling on the dock to sing “Auld Lang Syne.” Were they happy here? Will I be?