Wind whips against the side of the Jeep when we emerge from the tunnel, rocking the vehicle with its force. Ruth grips the steering wheel hard, and her eyes don’t leave the road when she speaks. “I don’t know. Maybe. Or maybe it was something she’d been planning for a while. Seemed that way to me. I mean, you can’t just up and leave without a plan for when you get through the tunnel.” Ruth glances quickly in my direction. “She needed help, Claire, and she wasn’t getting it here. And to see her now—healthy, sober, and doing everything she can to be your mom again—then I’m glad I said something. Are you?” Her chin trembles the tiniest bit. I’d miss it on anyone else, but on Ruth, who doesn’t let her emotions ever get the best of her—well, this is an emotional display that hits me square in the chest.
My answer comes automatically. “I think that leaving was the best thing she could have done for me.” Her head jerks in my direction, and it’s not hard for me to guess that this isn’t an answer I’ve given before. “You did the right thing, Ruth.”
I stare out the windshield, take in the stretch of glacier-blue water that runs alongside the road, breathe in a lightness that spreads across my shoulders.
“And she’s doing better. You have that in your notes, right?”
My answer slides out almost on its own. “Yes.” I study her profile, suddenly overwhelmed with a need to give her something. “You know I’ve always thought of you as my mom, too, Ruth.”
Ruth blinks fast but her mouth stays in a firm line, her eyes keep their tightness, and she doesn’t respond except for a soft harrumph that makes me smile.
When we return, it’s dark out and my phone buzzes with a reminder that makes me adjust the clip in my hair. “I’m having dinner with Tate tonight,” I tell Ruth as we carefully pick our way through the ice on our way from her Jeep to the building. “He’s coming over to watch a movie.”
Ruth hits a slippery patch and starts to slide, but I stabilize my boot on the pavement and grab her arm to keep her upright. “Thanks,” she says, regaining her footing. “Have fun. He’s a good man, Claire, and he loves you, and you deserve to be loved, do you hear me? Write that down.”
My face turns hot. “Okay.”
She grunts. “Good.”
I look through the peephole before I open the door, and seeing him sends a jittery rush through my leg muscles. His hair is pushed up and out of his face, and even through the distortion of the peephole, I can see his clean-shaven face, his luminous green eyes. I touch my hair and lean into the door, breathing through a desire to yank it open and pull him into me.
He knocks and I step back and open the door. “Hi, Tate,” I say, trying not to act like the nervous teenage girl I feel like inside. He’s the man I remember but also different—older, broader, handsomer, if that’s even possible.
He smiles, hands me a bouquet of sunflowers and a note card. “You look beautiful.”
I look down to hide the blush spreading up my cheeks and read the card.
I live in Whittier with my daughter, Maree. You teach her guitar and she adores you. I know about the baby and I’m not married anymore. I love you, Claire.
The number four is written on the other side, so large it takes up the entire card. “Four?”
He runs a hand through his hair and I watch, desperately wishing it were my own fingers. “It’s our fourth date.” Then he leans in and brushes his lips against my cheek. I inhale oak and musk. It makes my legs go weak. “I love you, Claire,” he says and his voice is deep, smooth. “And I’m not g . . . g-oing anywhere, so you might as well get used to it.”
A giddy happiness explodes into a smile. “You’re already dropping the L word on the fourth date? Don’t you think that’s a bit fast?”
He laughs. “I’ve loved you my whole life, Claire, so no, not t . . . t-oo fast at all.”
I touch the wall to remind myself to stand, smile, and hope he can’t tell how his words disarm me.
“Can I come in?” Our eyes lock and I’m transported back in time to our first kiss, feel my gaze lower to his lips, and my thoughts quickly turn to the memory of his skin against mine and—
“Claire?”
“Huh?”
He’s smiling. “Can I come in?”
“Oh, yes, um, of course.” I cringe at the way I stumble over my words like an adolescent girl.
Tate makes himself comfortable on the couch, stretching his long legs out in front of him, hands on the back of his head, grinning. “I love you,” he says.
I hold up the card. “That’s three times, now. Are you going for a record?”
He chuckles. “I figure if I keep saying it that one day you’ll just have to accept it.”
My cheek tingles where he kissed me, and I have to sit on my hand to keep from touching it. It makes me wonder whether I feel like this every time I see him.
He’s looking at me, a smile playing around the corners of his mouth. “You do.”
“What?”
“You’re w . . . w-ondering if you act like this every time I come around.” My mouth drops open and he holds his hand up. “No, I’m not psychic, it’s something you’ve asked before. And just so you know”—he leans forward, and the way he fills the space between us turns my stomach into knots—“I love it. What man wouldn’t w . . .w-ant constant adoration from the woman he loves?” He winks, leans back, and crosses his arms, looking every bit a Cheshire cat.
He hasn’t changed. It’s the Tate I remember, all right, still with that gleam in his eyes, the one who says, Let’s skip school and smoke a joint. The one who is trouble and fun and kind and caring all at the same time. The one who held my hand when Mom left. Except he’s different now—grown up, I suppose. Just like me. I drop my gaze, see the card in my hand. He’s a father and I’m Claire, the woman with no memory. How can I be anything more than that to him?
He reaches out and stops my writing hand. “Cross that out.”
“What?”
“All of it. You keep telling yourself that you don’t deserve to be happy w . . . w-ith me.”
My shoulders drop and my mind spins backward to when I was pregnant, how my body grew in strange ways, the heartburn that snaked up from my gut and into my ears, the constant ache in my lower back and the fear that kept me awake at night. What kind of mother would I be? How was I going to do it alone? The waves of loneliness and hormones that spurred thoughts of Tate, happy in his new life with Maria.
My stomach clenches. “What happened to your wife?”
Tate adjusts on the couch, looking suddenly uncomfortable. “She didn’t stay around long enough to learn her name. But it w . . . w-as for the best.” He works his jaw.
I think of his daughter, her fate so similar to my own, and feel my heart ache for this girl whose face I can’t remember.
“Is Maria like my mom, Tate?”
Tate’s face hardens. “She’s n . . . n-othing like Alice, Claire.”
I’m nodding. “I know; Mom’s sober now, right?” I tap my pocket. “And she’s here now.”
A slow smile spreads across his face. “That’s right, Claire, she is. We all are.”
His words add warmth to the room, and I join him on the couch, sitting close enough that our shoulders touch.
“What are we watching?” I say.
“Breakfast at Tiffany’s.”
My head cocks back. I know I’ve seen the movie at some point, because it feels familiar, even if I can’t recall the details.
“Do you . . . remember Jeanine?” he says.
My eyebrows meet. I do; she was one of a line of his father’s live-in girlfriends. She’d had platinum-blonde hair and had loved bright-red lipstick, but she’d been around for only a few months when we were nine. “She was the one you really liked, right?”
“She w . . . w-as the only one I liked.” He lightly hits the side of his head, and his smile diffuses the sad truth of his words. “I think I even called her Mom.”
I feel a twinge thinking about him back the
n—skinny, ill dressed, more alone than me—and I move closer to him on the couch, take his hand in mine, and squeeze.
He squeezes back. “Anyway, she loved this movie and let me watch it with her.” He laughs. “We must have watched it a hundred times.”
“I don’t think I’ve seen it,” I say.
“Good, then it will be like the first time for me too.” He pushes play and Audrey Hepburn lights up the screen, timelessly elegant in all black, hair perfectly coiffed in a beautiful beehive.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Thursday, February 21
The silence around my kitchen table is good, punctured only by the clink of forks and knives on plates. I’m hosting dinner tonight, and it’s a perfect evening to be inside with friends and my mom, who joined us because she lives in Whittier now. I am surprised to find that her presence feels natural and easy, and I bask in a welcome sensation that she is back in my life. Outside, a winter storm batters the coastline, and the snow is falling thick and fast.
Sefina sits back, pats her stomach. “I’ve got to save room for dessert. That was delicious, Claire.” She’s older than when we first met—I can tell from the shallow lines that spider out from her eyes—but always beautiful, still exuding a contentment that she didn’t have when she first got here. A contentment she credits to my dad for making sure her abusive ex-husband left Whittier for good.
Harriet barks a laugh that is laced with a roughness that comes from years of smoking. “Best chicken parm I’ve had in ages, and that includes the one I had in a trattoria in Manarola when Pete and I backpacked through Italy years ago.”
Ruth groans and keeps eating, and I just smile while I scan my talking points. There aren’t many on the page, as though I was too busy to prepare, but I don’t feel panicked by it, at least not in their company. “Ruth tells me that some of the townspeople aren’t too happy with all the proposed development at the harbor.”
Mom laughs and I’m struck by how alive she looks—so different from the woman who left. “That townsperson happens to be Ruth herself. She goes to every single council meeting to voice her opposition.”
“Last time she had protest signs,” Sefina adds. “It’s a wonder Tate’s even speaking to you, Ruth.”
Ruth raises her eyebrows, sniffs, and eats the last bite of her chicken. “Must be my sparkling personality.”
I smile, look at Ruth, who is as sturdy and dependable as a lighthouse in a storm. She’s been alone since her husband left, I think, and suddenly, I can’t bear the idea of her without someone to care about her for once. “When are you going to share that sparkling personality with someone, Ruth?”
Her mouth hangs open, and the lines in her forehead deepen with surprise.
Harriet points a pasta-laden fork at Ruth. “See, we all know about it, Ruth. Even Claire.” She smiles at me. “No offense.” Ruth presses her lips together, her cheeks colored pink, and gives Harriet a look.
“You and Hank are terrible at hiding your feelings anyway,” Sefina adds.
I gasp. “You’re with Hank? What? How long? Why hasn’t anyone told me?” They all turn to stare at me, and I can’t speak, my body so light I think I’m hovering above the seat, overcome with happiness. “Oh, have you? Sorry.” I’m combing through my notebook, but the lines blur together from my smile, and I look up, not needing to read about it, wanting to enjoy the moment with them. “That’s so great, Ruth.” I was only seven when her husband left, but I can still remember the sadness reflected in her eyes for months afterward.
Ruth’s face softens and she gives a relaxed smile that makes her instantly younger. “I have you to thank, Claire.”
“Me?”
She nods and I think her eyes are wet. “I’ve watched you living your life no matter what was in your path, making the best out of every single lemon life gave you. One day I just decided it was time to stop feeling sorry for myself and get on with it.” She shrugs. “And Hank was right there, so.”
This I do write down, in detail, because I never want to forget the happiness that smooths her skin, illuminates her eyes.
Mom’s phone rings. “Hi, Tate. Oh no . . . yes.” She visibly softens. “I’m sure she’d love that. Okay, send her up.” She presses end, meets my eyes. “Tate is in Anchorage and is going to miss the tunnel. His daughter, Maree, is at a friend’s house, but she doesn’t want to spend the night there. She asked if she could stay here.”
My mind spins. Tate. His daughter. I wait for the information to settle. “With me?”
“Yes, Tate’s daughter, Maree, the girl you teach guitar and volunteer with at school.”
My shoulders lift with a sudden rush of excitement. “I’d love that . . . oh”—a sudden wave of insecurity hits me—“do you think I can do it?”
A knock at the door, and Sefina rises. “No time like the present to find out, hey, Claire?” She opens the door to a little girl, who immediately hops into the room, shouldering a full backpack, a white teddy bear squeezed between her arms. She’s wearing pajamas with little rabbits bouncing from the sleeves to the legs. A silver name tag is affixed to the front pocket of her jammie shirt. Maree.
“Hi, everybody. Hi, Ms. Claire.”
I get her a chair and sit her right beside me. “Hi, Maree. I’m glad you’re here.”
Mom brings over a spongy brown cake; rings of pineapple glisten yellow across the top.
“Oh, yum. What’s that?” Maree asks.
“A pineapple upside-down cake. Have you had one before?” Mom says.
Maree shakes her head. “I’d remember a cake like that.”
“Who wants coffee?” Harriet asks.
While Harriet makes coffee, I am furiously creating a plan for my surprise guest. I tug at the ends of my hair, trying to pretend that I’m not as nervous as I feel inside. I don’t want to screw this up.
Sefina leans over, taps my notebook. “Claire?”
I look up; everyone is drinking coffee, and most of their plates are nearly empty. “Oh, sorry. I just wanted to make sure I was organized for tonight.”
The little girl chews her last bite and looks at me thoughtfully. “We’ve spent tons of time together, Ms. Claire, and I’m really good at helping you remember. Dad says it’s because I talk so much. So you don’t have to worry. I’ll help you.”
“Thank you, Maree.” I am overwhelmed but somehow not surprised. The girl seems comfortable with me, as though we are old friends, and it warms me from the inside out. I set my pen down. “I’d better not miss out on this cake.”
Harriet slides a piece onto my plate, and the cake is spongy and sweet, and the baked pineapples pair perfectly with the bursting accompaniment of plump cherries and the earthiness of the coffee.
“Do you know that this is Dad’s favorite cake?” I say. Ruth nods; her eyes shift and I see her looking at my note card. I tap it. Dad died from a heart attack on September 21. My throat tightens and I add another hash mark to the card. “Mom made it for his birthday every year.” I look at Maree. “One year he took the pineapples and stuck them to his face like glasses.” Maree giggles. “And I laughed so hard that milk came out my nose.”
Mom laughs now and it’s the same beautiful, melodic sound that I never got tired of hearing. Oh, Vance, she’d said to my dad and gently took off the pineapples; then she’d cupped the side of his face. They’d locked eyes, smiling at each other in a way that made my seven-year-old heart burst like the cherries in the cake. Then he’d pulled her into his lap and kissed her, and I remember scrunching my nose. Ewww! What I really thought was that they were like a knight and a princess, and our lives were a perfect fairy tale.
Sefina pipes up. “Claire, did you hear about the people who got caught camping inside the Buckner last week?”
I shake my head, not surprised because the Buckner attracts everything from ghost hunters to adventure seekers to people fascinated with history and abandoned buildings.
Harriet’s hoarse laugh settles over us like a rough blank
et. “Started a fire and everything, like they were outside under the stars. Ridiculous!”
“They were filming a video,” Sefina says. “Young guy was skiing down the stairwell and crashed. Broke his hand, I think.” Sefina’s eyes are big, bright. News in Whittier is limited, so I’m sure this has made the circuit a number of times, perhaps with a few refinements along the way.
“That’s right,” Ruth adds. “He said he saw a ghost.”
Maree’s eyes get wide. They are a beautiful deep blue, ringed in green. “Ghosts?”
Harriet laughs so hard she wheezes. “No, Maree, not ghosts. Just a bunch of kids who think skiing inside an old building is adventure. Hah! I’ll give them real adventure. Try summiting Annapurna or living for a year with Buddhists who’ve taken a vow of silence.”
Ruth groans and Harriet grins—amused, I know, to have irritated Ruth with her larger-than-life and very likely made-up adventures. This is a game the two of them have played for years.
We finish dessert and everyone cleans up together in a companionable silence, even Maree, who scrapes plates into the trash bin. Afterward, we play Pictionary, and Maree quickly teams up with Ruth and Sefina against Harriet, Mom, and me.
“No offense,” Maree says to me. “But I think this team might remember more stuff.”
I can’t help but laugh. I enjoy a little bit of smack talk. “None taken, kiddo. But you should know, I haven’t forgotten my competitiveness.” I wink. “I still like to win.”
When the game wraps up, I tell Maree to brush her teeth while Mom helps me make up a bed on the couch. Mom’s the last to leave. She hesitates at the door, and we both look at Maree, who is curled up on the couch, her feet tucked under her, a book spread open on her lap. Her eyes droop as she reads. Outside, the snow obliterates any light from the harbor, making it appear as though BTI is a ship out at sea. The windows creak from the wind.
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