Morning Glory(4)

I reach for a mug on the shelf and fill it with coffee. I hold it up to my nose, then take a sip before proceeding down the hall, where a daybed is wedged against the wall facing a white bookshelf. The shelf is stocked with castaways from renters of years past. Maeve Binchy. Stephen King. I smile when I see a copy of The Ultimate Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. It used to be James’s favorite.

I close my eyes tightly, then proceed around the corner, where I pass a pint-size stacked washer and dryer set, a linen closet, and a small bathroom. A generous skylight presides over the shower, with a tiny square window that looks out from the stall to the dock and the lake beyond. I can see a young family motoring past in a small boat. There’s a little girl in a pink life jacket and an older boy on the stern with his father. I look away.

I walk back down the hall, passing a framed painting of an old sailboat. I squint and see the name Catalina painted in blue on her side. My mind turns to the island off the coast of San Diego. Sunrise sent me there nine years ago, the year after the wedding. I remember watching seabirds swooping into the cove. James came with me. We had panini at a little café on the beach. I take a deep breath, turning back to the painting. The boat’s two sails puff out proudly over its wooden hull. The blue water below is tropical. Perhaps this is the Bahamas, or somewhere else in the Caribbean. Where is she sailing, this ship called Catalina? She looks unbounded, full of life, pushing ahead with no anchor, no concerns to hold her back. I reach out and touch my finger to the canvas. I know it’s bad etiquette, but I can’t help it. It’s as if the painting is magnetic. I feel the lines, the texture of the artist’s brush.

Behind me are the stairs—well, more like a ship’s ladder—that lead to the loft above. I duck my head and climb up until I reach the upper floor, where the fir plank floors creak beneath my feet. There’s a double bed—its crisp, white linens look freshly laundered and pressed—and an old dresser with brass door pulls shaped like lion heads. Above the wooden headboard is the porthole. It’s been propped open, and I feel the cool morning air on my face. I listen as a pair of Canadian geese fly by, alternating squawks as they skim the water with their feet.

I carefully climb down the ladder to the living room. Outside the French doors, a sailboat bobs on the water. The rental office didn’t say anything about a sailboat. Its hull is wooden, stained the color of honey. It looks old but well kept. I unlock the door and walk out to the dock. I notice a yellow Lab snoozing outside a houseboat on the slip to my left. By now in New York, I’d already be sitting at my desk, having my second espresso and editing layouts. I would do that until one, until someone pried me away for lunch, which I would eat, reluctantly, before rushing back. I’d stay past nine, leaving only when the cleaning crew came in. I hated going home.

I sit down on a white Adirondack chair that looks out to the west side of Lake union  , where boats and floating homes nestle against the water’s edge. I see a green, grassy hill on my right—Gas Works Park, I think, remembering the Seattle guidebook I thumbed through on the plane—covered with rusted-out industrial relics that look almost sculptural. I watch the boats glide by for the next hour. Violin music lilts through the air, and I can’t make out the source. I remember something James always said, that sound is deceiving on the water, that sometimes you can hear a whisper from a half mile away. I listen for a moment, transfixed by the melody, until the music stops. I hear footsteps behind me, and then a voice.

“Henrietta!” It’s a man, on the dock. “Henrietta!” He sounds concerned, and for a moment, I wonder if someone is in trouble. Cautiously, I walk to the end of the deck, and I peer down the dock. I see his back first. He’s tall and in good shape for his age. Judging by the weathered look in his eyes, I’d peg him at a young sixty. His gray hair is parted at the side and falls over his forehead the way Ernest Hemingway’s did in the Key West photos, charming in a sort of boyish, brash way. “Oh,” he says, noticing me suddenly. “You must be the new neighbor.” He smiles warmly. “I’m sorry about the boat,” he continues, pointing to the sailboat moored outside my deck. “I meant to move that over to my slip before you arrived. I’ve just got to get the contractor out to fix the dock, and, well—”

“It’s OK,” I reply, taking a few steps closer.

“I’m Jim,” he says.

“Ada,” I say, taking his hand. “I arrived last night. I’m the new renter.”