Morning Glory

by Sarah Jio

  “See?” Jessica says a little too loudly. “He wants you to come over and say hello.”

  “Why don’t you go over and say hello, seeing how I’m doing all the work here?”

  She shrugs. “He’s looking at you, not me.”

  I’m able to leave work early enough to run home and change. I pick out a skirt and blouse, then toss them on my bed. This could be the night I’m proposed to. I will remember this moment for the rest of my life. I don’t want to look at the photos and think, “Why did I wear that?” I have to look the part of Mrs. Ryan Wellington. I select a black shift dress and put it on, then fasten my grandmother’s pearls around my neck before gazing at my reflection in the full-length mirror. Yes, just right.

  I decide to burn through my last twenty and take a cab to the restaurant. It’s raining lightly when I arrive, but I don’t care. I’m beaming. This is the first night of the rest of my life. I feel it. I smooth a wisp of hair, then give my name to the hostess. I look around the dining room. Ryan isn’t here yet. That’s OK. I’ll wait for him at the table.

  “I’m sorry, miss,” the tight-lipped hostess says. “There’s no reservation under Wellington.”

  “That’s strange,” I say. “There must be some mistake. My boyfriend and I are having dinner here tonight. His name is Ryan Wellington.”

  She stares at me, emotionless.

  “Maybe he made the reservation in my name. Ada Miller.”

  She scans her clipboard, then shakes her head. “Nothing for Miller either.”

  “Oh,” I say, glancing back at the door. Ryan will show up soon and sort this all out. He always does.

  “What would you like to do, miss?” the woman asks. She sounds a little impatient. “I can put you on the list, but we’re booked until nine thirty.” I glance at my watch. It’s only six. “Or I can seat you at the bar. I think there are a couple of spots left at the counter.”

  I’m disappointed. It isn’t exactly how I’ve envisioned my marriage proposal happening. But what does it matter? It will be just as joyous a moment at the bar as it would at a table with a pressed white tablecloth. “Yes,” I finally say. “That’ll be fine.”

  She escorts me to the bar, and I sit on an uncomfortable stool. I feel like my dress is too short, so I tug at the hemline to pull it lower on my legs. I order a glass of white wine and look down to the end of the bar, where I suddenly see the guy Jessica was making a fuss over at the briefing today. James, I think his name was, from the New York Times. He must recognize me, because he smiles and lifts his glass at me. I nod and quickly turn back to my wine. I sip slowly, but a half hour passes, and then an hour. When the bartender asks if I’d like a refill, I nod and check my cell phone for the ninth time to see if I’ve missed a call from Ryan. I haven’t. I decide to call him, but the phone just rings five times and clicks over to voice mail. “Hi,” I say flatly. “I’ve been sitting here for an hour. Where are you? I miss you. I thought we were having dinner tonight. Anyway, I’m at Jean Georges. I love you.”

  I hang up the phone just as Ryan appears at the entrance to the restaurant. He’s wearing a heavy overcoat. I watch as the hostess points to his jacket, offering to check it, but he shakes his head. I wave to him from the bar, and he walks over to me.

  “Hi,” I say, kissing him. His face is unshaven and he’s wearing jeans. I would have expected him to dress up a little, but all that matters is that he’s here. I pat the barstool next to me. “Somehow they didn’t have our reservation,” I say. “But that’s OK. It’s actually kind of cozy up here.”

  Ryan doesn’t sit down; instead he rubs his forehead nervously. He looks awful. Something’s happened; I can see it in his eyes. There’s been a tragedy in his family, maybe. His father’s plane—did it go down? “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Look, Ada,” he says. “Shoot, I don’t know how to say this.”

  That pesky guy from the New York Times is looking at me again. I try to ignore him. “What is it?” I say. “Honey, you can tell me anything.”

  “That’s what I love about you, you know?” he says. “You’re such a good person. It’s just that I—”

  I lean back. No, this is not happening. Is this really happening?

  “I just see our lives going in two different directions,” he says.

  “Oh.” I feel like I’ve been hit with a Taser. I am stunned, in every way possible. “You’re breaking up with me.” I have to say the words to make sure that this is real and that I’m not imagining it.

  “You don’t hate me, do you?”

  “No,” I say robotically. “No, Ryan. I could never hate you.”

  “Good,” he says, the smile returning to his face. He picks up my wineglass and takes a big gulp. “I have to go.”

  I nod. “Yes.”

  “Keep in touch?”

  I fake a smile. “Always.”

  And then he is gone. I bury my face in my hands. I don’t know how much time passes, but at some point, the bartender taps me on the shoulder. “Miss,” he says, “the gentleman at the end of the bar sent over this bottle for you.” It’s white, something French. I don’t know what to say, so I glance down toward the end of the bar, but he’s gone.

  “Looking for me?” a man says from behind me.

  I turn around, and there he is, holding two empty wineglasses. He points to the barstool next to me. “May I?”

  I think back to that night, and I write exactly what happened. How James made me laugh until my sides hurt. How we stayed out until two talking at a greasy spoon diner. How I came to realize that some of life’s most beautiful things grow out of the darkest moments.

  Chapter 11

  PENNY

  Dex is coming home today, and my heart skips with anticipation. I’ve dusted the living room and changed the bed linens. On the walk home from Pete’s Market, I stopped and picked sweet peas on the roadside, and now they wait attentively in a crystal vase we received as a wedding present from one of Dex’s society friends. I reapply my lipstick before checking the cinnamon rolls in the oven. He told me once how much he loves them, that his beloved nanny used to make them for him when he was a boy. I wish he would talk about his past more, but when I ask questions, it only makes him cagey and uncomfortable. I know little of his formative years, only that his father, a wealthy shipping magnate, ruled the home like a dictator, and his mother died when he was young. He experienced so little joy as a child, and I want so desperately to make him happy now.

  I slip my hands into a pair of oven mitts and pull the cinnamon rolls out of the oven. I let them cool for fifteen minutes before inching each out onto a platter. I drizzle them with icing, then turn to my notebook of recipes and open a new page. I’ve made these from memory so often, I’ve decided it’s time to write the recipe down:

  Cinnamon Rolls (Dex’s Favorite)

  Makes 1 dozen

  INGREDIENTS

  ¾ cup milk

  ¼ cup butter, softened

  3 ¼ cups all-purpose flour

  ¼ cup white sugar

  1 package yeast

  ½ teaspoon salt

  1 egg

  ¼ cup water

  FOR FILLING

  1 cup brown sugar, packed

  1 tablespoon ground cinnamon

  ½ cup butter, softened

  PREPARATION

  1. Heat the milk in a small saucepan until it bubbles, then remove from stove. Mix in butter; stir until melted. Let cool slightly.

  2. In a large mixing bowl, combine 2 ¼ cups flour, sugar, yeast, and the salt; mix well. Add egg, water, and the milk-butter mixture; beat well. Add the remaining flour, ½ cup at a time. Knead dough until smooth. About five minutes.

  3. Let dough rise for about an hour or more. Meanwhile, in a small bowl, mix together brown sugar, cinnamon, and softened butter for filling.

  4. Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Punch down dough, then roll out into a 12×9-inch rectangle. Spread filling mixture on dough. Roll up and pinch seam to seal. Cut into 1
2 equal-size pieces and place in a greased 9×12 glass dish. Cover and let rise until doubled, about an hour.

  5. Bake for 20 minutes, or until golden brown. Let cool, then drizzle with royal icing if desired.

  I make a little heart beside the recipe, then close the book, just as I hear Dex’s key in the door. He tosses his gray hat on the davenport, and I run to him. “Oh, honey, I’ve missed you so much!” I cry.

  He kisses me and then carries me upstairs the way he used to, and I think for the first time in a long while that everything is going to be all right.

  Dex reaches for my hand, but I stand up and dress. “I have a surprise for you,” I say.

  “Another?” he says, grinning.

  “Come downstairs,” I say, fastening the buttons on my dress.

  He sits up and reaches for his pants on the chair, then follows me down the stairs to the kitchen. I put a cinnamon roll on a plate and hand it to him, smiling.

  He shakes his head. “I already had breakfast.”

  “Oh,” I say, wounded. “I thought you liked my cinnamon rolls.”

  “I do. It’s just that I already had a huge omelet at Gill’s.”

  My heart sinks. He used to take me to Gill’s. Now he goes alone. I nod and walk out to the deck.

  “Penn,” he calls after me. “What is it?”

  It’s so many things. His absence. His distance. The way my heart longs for a baby. But I don’t say anything. Instead, I try to smile like the wife I know he wants me to be.

  “I feel awful,” he says, leaning against the doorway. He’s so incredibly handsome with that dark hair, those eyes. “But I have to go back to the studio today.”

  “Why?” I protest. “But you just came home.”

  “I know.” He looks guilty, conflicted. “But I’m so close to completing the painting. It’s being installed next Tuesday. I can’t afford to be late this time. It’s for the Duboises.”

  I know who they are. I know that they are very rich and that Mrs. Dubois has taken a liking to Dex, the way all of his female patrons seem to do. I saw the way she smiled at him at the theater last spring. It was intermission, and she wore a peach dress with a sweetheart neckline. She batted her eyelashes at Dex between sips of champagne.

  “Yes,” I say, emotionless, looking ahead.

  “Don’t be like that, Penn,” Dex says. He reaches into the pocket of his pants and pulls out a small white envelope. “Take it,” he says. “It’s a surprise. For you.”

  I bite my lip as I turn the envelope over in my hand, lifting the flap reluctantly. I pull out two pieces of cardstock. Tickets. I squint, and see the words Frank Sinatra printed on the front. I smile. “Really, Dex?”

  “I know how you’ve always wanted to see him in concert,” he says, kneeling beside me. “I thought we could go together. He’s coming next week, to the Fifth Avenue Theatre.”

  I’m crying now, and he’s smiling because he thinks they’re tears of happiness. But they’re not. These tickets are not a gift. I know that. They’re a consolation prize.

  He kisses my forehead and walks back inside to gather his things before closing the door softly behind him and heading back to his private world away from me.

  The cinnamon rolls sit untouched on the counter.

  Chapter 12

  ADA

  So,” Joanie says, the next day on the phone. “How’s life on the lake?”

  I think of Jim and what he told me about Penny yesterday. He didn’t give me any particulars, but I sensed the sadness associated with the subject. I decide that I won’t ask him what happened. Her memory is very personal to him; I can tell.

  “I’m making my way,” I say. “But there’s something I’m trying to figure out.”

  “Oh?”

  Joanie works in human resources for the NYPD, and she can find anything out about anyone, a skill that has come in handy over the years. On behalf of a reporter friend, I once asked for her help digging up some dirt about the shady owner of an art gallery in Brooklyn, and her sleuthing led to the discovery of a stolen Picasso in the basement a month later. Joanie and I took Ella to see the painting hanging in the Met the next month, and we both felt a wonderful sense of justice seeing the result of our teamwork.

  “Well,” I say, “I found something in the houseboat.”

  “What?”

  “There’s this old chest. It was locked, but I found a key, and I—”

  “Discovered a chest full of gold coins?”

  “Not quite,” I say, smiling. “But it’s kind of fascinating in and of itself.” I tell her about the hospital bracelet, the photos, the book, the wedding dress and other relics.

  “Kind of creepy,” she says.

  “There’s more,” I continue. “This woman, who I assume the items belong to, well, she disappeared years ago. No one here will talk about what happened to her. And I can’t figure out if it’s because they don’t know, or they don’t want to tell.”

  “So you want me to do a little digging. What was her name?”

  “Penny. Penny Wentworth.”

  “OK,” Joanie says. “I’ll see what I can do. Check your e-mail a little later. I’ll send what I can find on my lunch hour.”

  I set the phone down and step outside when I hear commotion on the dock. A splash in the water. Footsteps. Someone shouting. Jim’s standing at the edge of the dock, rubbing his forehead.

  “Is everything all right?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “She came home, and then she left again. Just like that.”

  I see Haines by his side, and I realize he’s talking about the duck.

  “Henrietta?”

  Jim nods gravely.

  “Oh no.”

  “These two,” he says, looking down at the stoic mallard. “They need a marriage counselor.”

  I grin, just as Alex appears on his deck. I wave.

  “Hi,” he says.

  “Hey, happy birthday,” Jim says.

  “Thanks.”

  “Happy birthday,” I say quickly. “What are you doing to celebrate?”

  “Absolutely nothing,” he replies, looking to the north lake. “I may paddle up to Gas Works later.”

  “Oh, the park?” I’ve been fascinated by the green grassy hill since the morning after I arrived. Its rusted-out industrial remains of old Seattle look almost sculptural in the distance.

  “Yeah,” he says, adjusting his sunglasses. “You could join me—I mean, if you’re not doing anything.”

  I sense Jim’s eyes on me. I know he’s smiling, but I don’t make eye contact.

  “That would be nice,” I say.

  “Jim,” Alex says politely, “care to join?”

  “Nah. You two go ahead.” He’s still smiling.

  “I’ll go grab my sweater,” I say.

  Alex paddles over in front of my houseboat a moment later, and I climb into the back of the kayak. “Here,” he says, handing me a paddle. “I brought some sandwiches.” He gestures toward the middle section of the kayak.

  My cheeks flush suddenly when I think of where I am. In Seattle. Off to a picnic with a man I’ve just met days ago.

  “So, how old are you today?” I ask.

  “Thirty-seven.”

  “An old man.”

  “I know.” Our paddles touch for a moment. It’s the nautical equivalent of stepping on someone’s foot on the dance floor. “Sorry,” we both say in unison.

  I realize how rusty I am at all of this, and maybe he is too. I think of his ex. Kellie. And I think of James. Their memories hover in the kayak with us, like ghosts.

  We make it across the lake and tie the kayak to a dock that leads into the park. Alex steps out first and offers me his hand. He collects the bag of food and a blanket, and we climb up the grassy hill dotted with tiny white flowers. It’s sunny, and there’s a light breeze. Four children are flying kites along the hillside.

  “How’s this?” he asks when we reach a place where the roundness levels. I can see the dock in
the distance, my little houseboat perched at the tip.

  “Perfect,” I say, peeling off my sweater. Despite the breeze, the sun is warm, and I’ve worked up a sweat.

  Alex lays out the blanket, and we both sit down. He offers me a turkey sandwich and opens a plastic container of sliced apples and strawberries.

  “I haven’t been on a picnic in a really long time,” I say. “Not since—”

  “Since before the accident?” Alex isn’t intimidated by my past; I can tell. It’s rare, actually. The few times I’ve talked to men about what happened, they’ve clammed up, changed the subject.

  I nod.

  “Well,” he says, “I’m glad I could reintroduce you to the joys of picnicking.”

  I smile and take a bite of my sandwich. “You actually made these?”

  “No,” he says. “Picked them up this morning at Pete’s.”

  I grin, looking out at the Space Needle in the distance.

  He follows my gaze. “I’d love to take you there,” he says. “You haven’t lived until you’ve had an ice cream sundae on top of the Needle.”

  “Oh, is that right?”

  He finishes his sandwich, then rolls to his side, propping himself up on his elbow. “They call it the Lunar Orbiter,” he says. “Ice cream on top of a bed of dry ice, drizzled with loads of chocolate sauce.”

  “OK,” I say. “You had me at chocolate sauce.”

  “It’s the only item on the original Space Needle menu from the 1962 World’s Fair.”

  “I’ve always wanted to see the Space Needle,” I say. “My dad went to the World’s Fair as a kid. He still talks about the Space Needle like it’s the Eiffel Tower.

  “Hey,” I say, setting my sandwich down. “I asked my sister-in-law to see what she can dig up about our little unsolved mystery.”

  Alex looks up. “You did?”

  “She works for the NYPD. She can find out anything about anyone.”

  He nods. “They’re all good people in their own ways, truly. But I’ve long suspected that the residents of Boat Street are practiced in the art of concealment.” He takes a drink from his water bottle, then turns back to me. “After you left yesterday, I remembered something.”