Morning Glory(67)

“Oh, Alex.”

“I hated him for a long time after that. I was so angry. But mostly I was angry at myself. I thought I could’ve prevented it from happening. If I’d played that game of Monopoly with him that evening like he wanted to, if I’d stayed home instead of going to my friend John’s for a sleepover. If I’d been a better son. But one day I just let it go. I stopped blaming myself. I stopped being angry. His death was tragic, but I couldn’t let it define my life. And most important, I didn’t cause it.”

I nod. “I wish I could get to that place.”

“You will,” he says. “Be patient with yourself. Promise?”

I nod. “I’ll try.”



Joanie calls the next morning at seven. It’s ten New York time, so I don’t mind that she’s calling so early. Besides, I woke up at four unable to sleep and spent an hour on the deck watching the white morning glory buds open with the sunrise.

“I tried calling you last night, but your phone went straight to voice mail,” she says. “Is everything all right?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I had company.”

“You were seeing what’s-his-name again?”

“Alex. We went out to dinner at the Space Needle and then came back here and talked until midnight.”

“Uh-huh.” Her voice is teasing, and I can imagine the look on her face.

“Stop,” I say. “We’ve only kissed once.”

“And? Is he a good kisser?”

“Yes,” I reply, feeling my cheeks warm a bit at the thought.

“So are you seeing him again today?”

“No. He’s on a shoot in Portland.” It occurs to me that he could be with Kellie. I failed to ask whether they still work together. But I don’t let my mind dwell on the thought, especially after all he shared with me.

“Hey, I almost forgot,” Joanie says. “I found something that might be helpful in your search for Penny.”

“Oh, what?”

I hear the sound of her sorting through papers. “A deposition given by a little boy named Jimmy. I was only able to obtain the first few pages, because a psychologist ordered him mentally unstable for trial.”

“You said his name was Jimmy?”

“Yes. I’ll e-mail you a PDF.”



That afternoon, I decide to go for a walk to Pete’s Market. It’s a cool day, so I put on a light sweater, and I grab my purse. An hour later I return with a bag filled with groceries. As I step onto the dock, I notice that the empty houseboat on the left seems to be inhabited. The windows are all propped open, as if someone’s just come home and is airing the place out. Just as I’m passing, an older woman appears in the doorway. Her gray hair is short and curled, the way my grandmother’s is. But she has a youthful smile, and adventurous eyes that hardly match her eighty-some years. “Honey,” she says, “can I talk you into helping me for a moment? I’ve just come home from an extended trip and I think I may have vermin living behind the dresser.”

“Oh no,” I say, setting the grocery bag down. “Of course.”

I step inside her houseboat. It’s small and clean. It has the look of a place that’s more of a stopover than a home. There are no pictures on the walls or personal items about. Just a suitcase on the floor and a coffee table and sofa with no throw pillows.

“I’m Esther,” she says, extending her hand. “You must be new here.”

“Yes,” I say. “Ada Santorini. I moved in recently. I’m renting the houseboat at the end of the dock.”

“Oh, the old Wentworth residence,” she says, looking me over. “And how are you liking it?”

“Very much. It’s lovely here on the lake.”

“It is and it isn’t,” she says, turning back to the dresser and making a displeased face. “So many critters.”

I smile. “How long have you owned your home here?”

“Oh, forever, I guess,” she says. “I came here in the 1940s. I left a bad marriage.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It was a hard time,” she says. “I had to leave my darling daughter behind on Bainbridge Island and start over. In those days women didn’t stand a chance in divorce battles, so I just threw in the towel. I didn’t want to fight.”

I can’t imagine ever feeling that way about my marriage or my daughter. If the circumstances arose, I’d fight for her. And yet, I don’t know the extent of Esther’s story, so I don’t pry. Besides, there’s a look in her eyes that tells me she had no other choice.

“At the time, a houseboat was all I could afford,” she continues. “The lake wasn’t fancy like it is now. I bought it for five hundred dollars, and now it’s worth five hundred thousand. Some investment, don’t you think?”