I almost fainted when Mama laced up the back of my wedding dress. “My water baby swims to shore,” she said to me as I stared into the mirror, surveying myself in the enormous white dress. I remember looking away, unable to look into my own eyes.
After the reception, Dexter carried me over the threshold, a floating one. He owned a home on Queen Anne Hill, but he preferred living in his houseboat on Lake union . He painted better there, he said, and the water helped clear his head. I remember the feeling of swaying when he set me down, though that could have been me as much as the boat. How could a woman ever fit into this very masculine place, I wondered, surveying the mass of canvases and art supplies, the brown davenport, assorted painted oars, and carved wooden fish, gifts from a Native American artist friend. But then he turned to me and whispered, “Don’t worry, you can change everything to your taste.” He was generous, always generous.
I close my eyes and try to remember the way he used to look at me then, with such love, such desire.
The oven timer beeps from the kitchen, extracting me from my memories. I almost forgot the blueberry muffins. I lift my feet out of the lake and run inside to grab an oven mitt, then pull them out, breathing in their sweet, steamy scent. Last week I confided in Dexter about my dream of opening a bakery, but he only laughed. “You’d hate it after five minutes,” he said, dismissing the idea.
“That’s not true,” I said.
He patted my leg. “Sweetheart, you’d be bored to pieces.”
What I didn’t say was that I’m bored to pieces now. Dexter has his art. I have . . . nothing. Mama says I should be grateful not to have to work; she says women would kill to be in my position. But I want to do something. And after the house is cleaned, mending done, clothes ironed, there is nothing more. I want something more.
I stare at the pan of muffins and wonder if Dexter is right. What do I know about business? I shake my head as I transfer the muffins from the pan to the cooling rack. I select three and wrap them in a white tea towel. I’ll offer some to Collin, as a welcome-to-Boat-Street gesture. I won’t eat them all, I rationalize, and Dex, well, who knows when he’ll be home, so there’s no sense letting them go to waste.
I run to the back door to get my shoes, which is when I hear a sniffling sound coming from the deck.
“Hello?” I say, before peering out the back door. “Is someone there?”
Little Jimmy Clyde is huddled against the houseboat with his knees pressed to his chest and his face buried in them. He’s the eight-year-old son of Naomi and Gene Clyde, who live three houseboats down on the dock. On weekends, Jimmy likes to sit with his fishing pole in sight of my front windows. He caught a trout last Saturday, and I helped him clean it. His little legs dangled over the barstool at my kitchen counter while I fried the fish in a cast iron skillet. I served it for lunch with butter and parsley, and Jimmy said it was the best meal he ever ate, which was a compliment, given that his mother is a proficient cook.
“Oh, honey,” I say, rushing to him. “What’s the matter?”
“Mommy hates me,” he says, wiping a tear away.
“No, she doesn’t, dear,” I say, patting his head. “No one could ever hate you.”
“Then why did she tell Daddy that she wants to send me to boarding school?”
I shake my head. “I’m sure that’s not what she meant.”
He nods. “But she did say it. They never think I can hear them from upstairs, but I can.”
Jimmy is the only child on the dock. It’s clear that he doesn’t fit into his parents’ carefully curated world of cocktail parties and career achievement. I once saw Naomi trip over one of Jimmy’s toys in the kitchen during a dinner party, and the look on her face still shakes me. It was as if she was allergic to her son’s presence.
Jimmy looks up suddenly. “I know!” he exclaims.
I cock my head to the right and smile. “What?”
“I could come live with you. You could be my mother.”
I am certain that I feel my heart break then, just a little. I squeeze his hand. “As happy as I would be having you around all the time, your parents love you too much to give you up. And you know that, dear.”
He nods, but his eyes are distant, lonely. Just like mine.
Chapter 4
ADA
I fish my cell phone out of my bag, relieved to see I have reception, and dial Joanie.
She picks up after one ring. “Ada?”
“I’m sitting here in the houseboat,” I say. “And I can’t decide whether I love it or if I want to catch the next plane home.”