Morning Glory(6)

Jim looks down at Haines and smiles. “Anyway, it’s nice to be here for them, you know?”

“Yeah,” I say vacantly.

“How about you?” he asks. “Where’s home for you?”

I look in the distance, as if I can actually see my Manhattan apartment beyond the Seattle skyline, then I turn back to face Jim. “I’ve lived in a lot of places,” I say.

“Right,” he says. His eyes sparkle as if he gets it, as if he has secrets of his own. He nods. “Well, you’re going to love it here.”

“I hope,” I say. “By the way, is there a grocery store nearby, someplace to pick up the essentials?”

Jim nods and points to the street above the dock. “Pete’s Market,” he says. “Just a few blocks from here. It’s been around as long as I have. Great wine, too. But then again, if you need anything, just pop over. We’re very communal here when it comes to bread, eggs, and milk.”

I smile. “Thanks.” I turn back to the lake, then again to the street above the dock. “It was dark when I arrived last night, so I’m still trying to get my bearings. Can you walk to much else around here?”

He nods. “Best coffee shop in Seattle is just up the hill on Eastlake, and you don’t want to miss the Italian restaurant, Serafina.”

“Sounds nice,” I say. If James were here, he would have already scouted it and made reservations for dinner tonight.

“You won’t find a better little community on the West Coast.” He turns back to Haines, who’s been listening to our conversation intently. “Well, I better get back to the search party,” he says, digging a hand into his pocket and pulling out a crust of bread. “Her favorite: stale ciabatta.”

“I hope you find her,” I say. Haines tilts his head as if he understands exactly what I’m saying.

Jim nods. “I’ll be back around this afternoon to move the boat back to my slip.”

“Oh, please don’t worry about it,” I reply. “I really don’t mind. It’s actually kind of quaint.”

He scratches his head. “Well, if it’s all right with you.”

“I insist,” I add.

“She has quite a history here, the Catalina.”

I shake my head. Her name must be painted on the opposite side. And then I remember the painting. “The Catalina?”

He grins.

“Inside my houseboat,” I say, pointing back toward the French doors, “there’s a painting—”

“Yes,” he says. I see the sparkle in his eyes again. “Well, I’ll be seeing you around.”





Chapter 3





PENNY WENTWORTH

Seattle, June 8, 1959


Dexter is gone. Again. I rise and walk out to the deck in front of the houseboat and dip my feet in the cool water. The dock sways as it always does in the mornings when the boats are leaving the south lake and making their way toward the locks. I don’t like it when they go. It makes me feel lonely, abandoned.

I look to my right, where the new neighbor on the next dock over, Collin, is crouched over the hull of the boat he’s building. He sands a strip of the railing with long, smooth motions. I’m mesmerized, until he suddenly looks up and smiles. My cheeks redden and I turn away quickly. It’s still early, and people keep to themselves on the dock in the morning hours. There are unspoken rules. I stare at the lake until my eyes cannot be tamed a moment longer, and without my permission, they wander back to Collin’s dock. He’s wearing a white V-neck T-shirt that’s stained with sweat. I can make out the lines of his chest, the definition of his muscles beneath the thin cotton. He wipes his brow with the back of his hand. I look away before our eyes meet again and kick my feet back and forth in the cold lake water—so dark, like a vial of cobalt blue paint tinged with too much black. I lean forward and try, as I always do, to see below the surface. Instead, I make out only my reflection, blurred and distorted. I hardly recognize myself, and in that moment, I wonder how I ended up here on this houseboat, so utterly and profoundly alone.



It was by complete coincidence that I met Dexter. If he hadn’t forgotten his portfolio. If I hadn’t stepped out for coffee at precisely nine thirty a.m. If the construction crew on Fifth Avenue hadn’t blockaded Madison Street. If the rain hadn’t picked up—our paths may have never crossed.

On March 9, 1956, Mr. Dexter Wentworth’s cab pulled up into my life. He rolled down the window and said, “Come on in out of the rain. I’ll take you wherever you need to go.” Nearly twenty years older than I, he was frighteningly handsome, with a square jaw, chiseled face, and thick dark hair. He spoke in a cool, deep voice. Calm and sure, like a movie star.