He appears to be sinking deeper into his grief, but I can’t let him leave me. Not yet.
“And Collin,” I say. “What became of Collin?”
“I wondered the same thing myself,” he says, looking up again. “He left Boat Street. Never did come back, except briefly when he left his sailboat in Jimmy’s care.”
“Yes,” I say. “I know.”
“I didn’t find out until years later,” he continues, “but Collin died.”
“How?”
“On a sailboat in Key West. He had a heart attack. The Coast Guard found him after he’d already died.” He shakes his head solemnly.
I think about these two men. They shared one thing, the love of a remarkable woman, and neither of them had a happy ending. “I’m sorry,” I finally say. “I . . . hoped things had turned out differently for Collin.”
“Me, too,” Dexter says faintly. He stares at his hands. They’re folded in his lap in contrition.
I wonder what Penny might think of her husband now if she were standing beside me. Never remarried, all but stopped painting—at least, according to the Web site I read—a man who carries such a heavy burden. Would she love him? Would she forgive him? My eyes wander around the room. I don’t know what I’m looking for. A clue? A sign? At once, I notice a little frame on a bookshelf. It’s an old-fashioned painted sign, an advertisement of some sort. The lettering is familiar, but I can’t place it. I stand and walk to the side of the room, compelled to have a look.
My hand trembles a little as I take the frame and read the words “Leighton Shipping Company” in weathered gold letters. I gasp. Ella’s sailboat had the very same inscription on the side. “Where did you get this?” I ask, turning around. Penny’s story, my story—it’s come full circle. My heart pounds inside my chest and I wonder if Dexter can hear it. To me, it sounds like a bass drum.
“My father owned the company,” he says. “The truth is, even in my heyday as an artist, I never could make a living at it, well, not the type of living my family was accustomed to. It was my father’s fortune that kept me alive. He was my biggest patron, even though we hardly spoke. Of course, I didn’t know that at the time. I found out years later.”
“But this name,” I say, pointing to the lettering. “My daughter used to have a little carved wooden sailboat with the very same name on it.”
“Yes,” he says, standing. He walks to a buffet near the dining room table, and pulls out a near replica of Aggie. “Like this?”
“My God,” I say, gasping. “That’s exactly it.”
“My father had a few hundred made. They sold them in the gift shop for a while. I used to take them down to the lake and let them glide out on their own. I always liked to think about where the tide would take them—through the locks, maybe, and out on the ocean. To think that one of my sailboats made it into your daughter’s hands.” He holds up the little boat, and smiles. “Would your daughter like this one? It’s the last one I have, and I’d be happy to give it to her.”
“No,” I say quickly. I don’t have the strength to tell him that Ella isn’t here anymore, and I hope he can’t see the tears in my eyes. “Thank you, but you keep it. It must mean a lot to you.”
“Really,” he says. “I insist.” He places the sailboat in my hands, and I read the words on the side.
“The Mary Jo,” I say, smiling. “My daughter had the Agnes Anne. We called her Aggie.”
“They were all hand-painted,” he says, “each with a different name. “The joke is that each was named after one of my father’s former girlfriends.”
I smile. “Well,” I say, looking at the sailboat again, imagining what Ella would say if she were here. “This was an unexpected surprise.”
“As was meeting you,” Dexter says, smiling.
“I’m leaving Penny’s notebook with you. If you like, I’ll bring her chest over later, when my friend Alex can drive me. It’s a bit heavy.”
“I’d be ever so grateful,” he says.
“Well,” I say, heading to the door. I tuck the little boat in my purse, not wanting to offend him by giving it back. “Thank you, again, Dexter. Wherever Penny went, I hope she knows just how much you cared for her, how much you have thought of her since.”
“Me, too,” he says.
Later that evening, I meet Alex and Gracie at a crepe stand on Fairview for dinner. He orders two ham-and-provolones and I choose a goat-cheese-spinach-and-tomato. We watch as the woman behind the stand pours the batter on the round wheel and rakes it into a perfect circle with a wooden tool. Within seconds, the batter thickens and bubbles, turning a shade of golden brown. She reaches for a tub of cheese labeled “Pro 3-5,” then shakes her head and tucks it under the shelf before looking up at us. “Almost forgot to toss this one. Found it in the back of the fridge. Expired months ago.” She opens a new tub of shredded cheese and sprinkles it on Alex’s crepe. I’m not thinking about expired cheese, however. It’s “Pro 3-5” that haunts me. I know it’s silly. It’s an expiration date for provolone cheese, but I key Proverbs 3:5 into my phone, and read what comes back: “Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge him and he will make your paths straight.”