“Yes,” he says. “He didn’t deserve her.”
“What do you mean?”
“Listen, from what I understand, he wasn’t the best husband. She loved him, though. I used to like to sit out there in front of her deck and fish or just look at the boats. She was always baking. You’d walk in, and this place smelled just like vanilla cake. She’d always have a cookie or a muffin to offer. She was kind that way. Once I overheard her crying. I think she had a fight with Dexter. It made me so mad. Even then, I wanted to go in and punch that man in the face.”
“He didn’t love her?”
“Everyone loved Penny,” he says. “Well, either they loved her or they were jealous of her.” He shakes his head and his eyes narrow. “Mom was jealous of her. Penny was so beautiful. She didn’t need makeup or a fancy hairstyle; she had a natural sort of beauty. But it was her kindness that I remember most.” He smiles to himself. “I used to fantasize about her being my mother.”
“Did she have children?”
“No,” he says. “But she wanted them. Dexter had children from a previous marriage. They were estranged. I don’t think he ever wanted to be a father again. Besides, he had his art. He was really in demand back then, had his paintings in galleries all over town, even in some Hollywood homes. I think Penny tried so hard to fit into Dexter’s world, but she never could. She should have married someone like Collin, someone who would have worshipped her.”
“Collin?”
He points to Alex’s houseboat. “He lived there during the summer of fifty-nine.”
“Jim, do you know what happened to Penny?”
His eyes fix straight ahead to the stove, as if he can see her there, inserting a toothpick into a cake. “I wish I knew,” he says, standing up a little hurriedly. “Well, I’d better get back before the paint dries.”
I sit down on the sofa and pull out my laptop. It’s beginning to drizzle outside. Perfect writing weather. I think about what Jim said about Penny, about Dexter and the man named Collin. I wonder about them all. But mostly, I wonder if Penny was happy and if she felt loved. I key down to my cursor and recount the day I met James.
Eleven years prior
“You do know who that is, don’t you?” My friend Jessica nudges me in the side. We’re both editorial assistants at Condé Nast Traveler, and we’ve been sent to a briefing at the Waldorf sponsored by the Caribbean Tourism Board.
Jessica is the daughter of a Rockefeller, so she fell into the position, not that she didn’t deserve it. She’s whip-smart. Me, on the other hand? Just as smart, I guess, but I practically had to kill for an interview and only moved on to the second round because of my portfolio. The article in the New York Times Magazine helped—so did fetching coffee for the editor in chief of Town & Country for one torturous year. So when I look at Jessica, it’s hard for me not to roll my eyes. “I don’t know who you’re talking about,” I say, trying to take notes. Someone from the island of Saint Lucia is speaking. My goal is to take notes, get a few quotes, then head back to the office. I have a date with Ryan tonight. He’s visiting from Duke, where he’s getting his graduate degree in finance, and he’s taking me to Jean Georges. I don’t want to read into his intentions, but we’ve gotten serious this past year, and I can’t help but think that a proposal is in the works. I feel giddy for a moment, to think that I could be Mrs. Ryan Wellington. His family has homes all over the country, and his parents travel by private jet. Theirs is an exciting, if not a little intimidating, lifestyle, but Ryan could be the son of a gas station attendant for all I care. It only matters that he loves me.
“James Santorini,” Jessica whispers.
I give her an I care because? look, and she frowns. “He’s a travel writer for the New York Times. He’s a total catch.”
I glance over at the dark-haired man Jessica is speaking of, just as he looks in our direction and smiles.
“See?” Jessica says a little too loudly. “He wants you to come over and say hello.”
“Why don’t you go over and say hello, seeing how I’m doing all the work here?”
She shrugs. “He’s looking at you, not me.”
I’m able to leave work early enough to run home and change. I pick out a skirt and blouse, then toss them on my bed. This could be the night I’m proposed to. I will remember this moment for the rest of my life. I don’t want to look at the photos and think, “Why did I wear that?” I have to look the part of Mrs. Ryan Wellington. I select a black shift dress and put it on, then fasten my grandmother’s pearls around my neck before gazing at my reflection in the full-length mirror. Yes, just right.