A half hour later, the oven timer sounds. I reach for the pot holders, then pull out a pan of lemon bars. Collin mentioned that his mother used to make them for him, so I’ve decided to surprise him. After they cool slightly, I slice them into squares and set them out on a white platter that Dex’s sister gave us as a wedding gift. I step back and look at them on the cold dish, then shake my head and transfer them to a paper plate that I find in the cabinet.
Collin peers in the back door an hour later. He’s carrying a picnic basket. “I thought we could have lunch in the park, maybe see a little of what they’re doing downtown to get ready for the World’s Fair.”
Seattle is preparing to host the World’s Fair in 1962, if the selection committee approves the city’s bid. Collin said once that he’d like to take me up on the Ferris wheel. I’ve never been on an amusement park ride, and the very idea exhilarates me. Besides, and perhaps more important, the date, three years hence, is an unspoken promise of our future together. He’ll be leaving this summer, after the boat is finished. But he’ll come back. Collin would never leave me forever; I know that. That fact quiets the fear in me. It makes me feel safe, somehow.
We catch a streetcar from Fairview Avenue, and Collin nestles beside me in a seat toward the back. “I hope he stays in California forever,” he whispers into my ear.
My neck erupts in goose bumps. Part of me wishes for Dex to linger too, of course. But it’s a delicate subject, one I don’t quite know how to navigate, so I don’t say anything; I just smile, and when he kisses my neck twice, I close my eyes and let myself float in the deliciousness of this moment. A moment when my heart is full and I feel deeply loved.
I straighten in my seat when I notice an older woman staring at us from across the aisle. She wears a dark dress and a gray pillbox hat with a short netted veil. Her gaze is disapproving, and I panic for a moment, worrying that I’ve seen her before. Is she a friend of Dex’s? A patron? After a few moments, I still can’t place her, but my concern lingers.
“What’s wrong?” Collin whispers. He has an uncanny ability to acutely sense my distress.
I fold my hands together. “It’s nothing,” I say, forcing a smile. But the woman’s presence is disquieting, like a sticky burr lodged in my stocking.
When the streetcar deposits us on Mercer Street, I take a deep breath once we start walking. It’s a pleasant day, not more than seventy degrees, but my forehead has erupted in beads of sweat. Collin tucks my hand in his and lifts it to his lips.
“Train sick,” I lie. I decide not to let my paranoia put a damper on this beautiful day. “Those streetcars always make me feel woozy.”
He lifts the basket. “Let’s go find a patch of grass to have lunch.”
I nod, and we walk along a paved pathway beside the construction zone for the World’s Fair. We pass colorful signs and billboards illustrating what’s promised to be “the greatest show on earth.” In one, children are depicted smiling, clutching cotton candy and giant lollipops, holding the hands of smiling adults. All around is space-age-looking architecture, and red gondolas dot the horizon. At the center of the image stands an enormous tower that reminds me a little of the Eiffel Tower in France, or at least the photographs Dex showed me from his trip to Paris years before he met me. “What’s that?” I say, pointing to the structure.
“The Needle,” Collin says casually. “Well, the Space Needle.” He takes a step closer to the illustration. “See here?” he says, pointing to the base of the tower. “You’ll be able to take an elevator to the top and even have lunch up there.”
I gasp. “It’ll be like eating on the moon.”
Collin grins. “I guess sort of like that,” he says, kicking a pebble beneath his feet before looking up at me again, wide-eyed. “I’ll take you.”
I wrap my arm around his waist. “You will?”
He nods, then spreads the picnic blanket out over a patch of grass behind us. I open the basket and pull out the ham sandwiches he packed, wrapped in waxed paper. I tucked in sliced apples and a lemon bar for each of us before we left.
“These are good,” Collin says, sinking his teeth into a lemon bar after polishing off his sandwich.
“Thanks,” I say, watching a group of seagulls peck at a bit of bread I tossed over to them.
I’ve hardly noticed anyone around us, but then a young man in uniform—navy, I think—stops suddenly in front of us.
“Leary?” he says, his face brightening. He shakes his head, astonished. “Is that you?”