Morning Glory(40)

“Well,” he says, rubbing his chin, “I just assumed he was in business. Seemed like the only reason to explain why he’s gone so often.”

“Dex is an important artist,” I say, a little more defensively than I intended. “He has a studio downtown. He works very hard.”

“Listen,” he says, smiling. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound critical, it’s just—”

I cross my arms. “It’s just what?” Mentally, I run through my list of deepest fears: That we’re not well suited? That he’s so much more sophisticated than I?

Collin shrugs. “What I mean . . .” His voice trails off. “How can I say this best?” He pauses for a moment. “OK, I’ll just say it.” He takes a deep breath. “If I had a wife like you, I wouldn’t ever want to leave.”

I feel my cheeks redden. “Oh. Well, thank you, I guess.” I retie my scarf, then turn back to him. “You know what this boat needs?” I ask, changing the subject.

“What?”

“Cushions.”

“It does,” he agrees. “Next time we go out, I’ll bring some pillows from the sofa.”

“No,” I say. “I was thinking that I could make them. There are some foam blocks in the closet, some fabric, too. I’m not sure what the materials are for, but they’ve been there forever. If the stash is not completely moth-eaten, I can sew some cushions.”

Collin shakes his head. “I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

I want to tell him that I fear I may go crazy in that little houseboat all by myself day after day without a purpose, without a project. “I want to,” I say.

“Well, if you can sew as well as you can bake,” he replies, “then I can’t refuse.”

I smile, and walk toward the front of the boat. I feel Collin’s eyes on me as I duck under the sails to the starboard side, but I misjudge the distance between the deck and the sail, and my head hits the heavy wooden section at the bottom of the sail. At first my vision blurs. All I feel is a dull ache, and then I lose my balance and everything goes dark.





Chapter 14





ADA

Alex meets me in front of my houseboat at five. “I’m taking you to dinner,” he says.

I look down at my outfit: leggings and a thin sweater, hardly dinner attire—certainly nothing I’d wear to a restaurant in New York. “Let me go change.”

“No,” he says, smiling. “You look perfect just as you are. After all, this is Seattle. People wear jeans and fleece to the fanciest places.”

I grin. “All right, let me get my purse.” I run into the house, pull my hair into a ponytail, and swipe on some lip gloss, then grab my purse before returning to the dock.

Alex offers me his arm, and we walk up the dock to the street above the lake. “Serafina is just up the hill,” he says. “If you don’t mind a little hike.”

“Fine with me,” I say. “I walked everywhere in New York. I’m used to it.”

The little restaurant is nestled alongside Eastlake Avenue, and Alex holds the door open for me as soft jazz drifts out to the street. A three-piece band sits on a tiny stage in the dining room, and the saxophonist winks at me as the hostess makes her way over to greet us.

“Two for dinner,” Alex says.

The hostess smiles and shows us to a table by the window. I look around the dining room, and I can see that Alex is right. A couple leans over a tiny table across the room. He’s wearing cargo shorts and sandals, and her denim skirt is frayed at the edge. It’s not New York, but I can see how I could come to appreciate this lack of pretense.

“The gnocchi is amazing here,” he says. “Same with the eggplant, and the pumpkin ravioli. Basically the whole menu.”

I smile. “I love rustic Italian. My husband came from a big Italian food family.” I watch Alex’s face carefully for any signs that he may be put off by the subject, but instead he leans in closer with interest.

“I bet he had one of those amazing Italian grandmothers whose kitchen always smells like garlic and basil and tomatoes simmering.”

“Yeah,” I say. “His nonna.” The waitress deposits a glass of Chianti before me, and I take a sip, marveling that I don’t feel the least bit uncomfortable talking about James with Alex.

“How about you?” I ask. “Did you grow up in a food family?”

“No—that is, if you don’t mean Twinkies and bologna sandwiches.”

“Me, too,” I say. “Children of the eighties. It’s no wonder we all haven’t come down with cancer by now.” I grin at him from across the table. “So what do your parents think of your new career photographing food?”