by Sarah Jio
He grins at me.
“What?”
“I like the way you speak.”
“The way I speak?”
His smile widens. “Five of eight. No one ever says that kind of thing.”
“Oh,” I say with a grin. “Well, when you’re raised by your grandparents, you do. Dinner was ‘supper,’ the couch was a ‘davenport.’ ” I laugh. “I can go on and on.”
“It’s cute,” Cade says.
“Well,” I reply, opening the oven to have a peek, “it’s less cute when you say ‘Oh fiddlesticks’ on the playground in the sixth grade and every kid in school teases you about it for the rest of the year.”
He looks amused. “ ‘Oh fiddlesticks,’ huh?”
“Yep.”
He takes off his jacket and hangs it on a hook by the door. I select a few leaves of basil from the fridge as Cade nestles into a chair at the table, and suddenly I feel ill-prepared to pull off this meal. What if I oversalted the meat? Is the romaine in the salad a bit wilted?
I realize that I’ve forgotten to pour the wine. “Here,” I say, reaching for a bottle of Bordeaux. “I’m not sure how good this is. It was a gift.”
He eyes the label confidently. “I guess we’ll find out.”
I find a corkscrew and do my best to carefully wind it into the bottle, but when I tug it upward, the cork cracks and then breaks. “Darn,” I say, stepping back. “I think I messed this one up.”
“I can fix it,” he says. “Any chance you have a toothpick?”
“A toothpick?”
“Yeah,” he says. “My aunt taught me the trick to salvaging any cork conundrum.”
I smile, digging through the utensil drawer until I find a box of toothpicks, left over from Tracy’s failed attempt at making mini-meatballs for a party last month. I hand him the box.
“Great,” he says, getting to work. “So here’s how you do it: While the corkscrew is still in, you wedge in a toothpick at a forty-five-degree angle.” His hands work with expert precision. “You tug at the corkscrew really carefully, and then”—he lifts the cork, miraculously intact, out of the bottle—“voilà.”
“Amazing,” I say with a smile, pouring two glasses and handing him one.
He holds the glass to his ear. “This is a good wine.”
“Are you listening to it?” I ask, a little confused.
“Yeah,” he says. “I know nothing about wine. But one of my friends who works in the industry told me that a good wine, especially a French red, will crackle a little after it’s poured.”
I hold the glass up to my ear and smile. “You know, I can actually hear it,” I say. “I never in my life knew there was such a thing as that.”
“Snap, crackle, pop…grenache blend.”
“You’re funny.”
He winks. “Stick with me, kid, and I’ll keep you in stitches.”
I grin, pulling two dinner plates from the cupboard. Part of me thinks: Who is this guy, and, more pressingly, who does he think he is? And another part of me wonders where he’s been all my life.
Cade takes a sip of his wine and walks to the window. “I never get tired of watching the ferries,” I say. “They each have personalities, you know.”
He turns to me and grins. “Oh?”
“Yeah,” I say, pointing to the vessel streaming through the water at a slug’s pace ahead. “That’s Bertha,” I say. “She’s bossy.”
Cade chuckles. “Oh, is she?”
“Maeve is sweet,” I say, squinting to make out another ferry in the distance. “And Eleanor is sassy.”
Cade looks at me as if I’ve said something either hilarious or bizarre, or both.
He makes me want to confide in him. “I love Puget Sound. The salt water, the seagulls, the islands.”
“I do too,” Cade says. “I don’t know that I could be happy without saltwater nearby.”
“Me too,” I say.
“Let’s go to the island sometime.”
“Would you want to?”
“Sure,” he says. “Let’s make a day of it. Ferry, beach, dinner—the works.”
“Okay,” I say, smiling, topping off each of our glasses. I flip on the radio, and a band I don’t recognize is playing.
Cade rolls his eyes. “Soulstreet Underground,” he says. “We signed them to Element two years ago, and they’ve been the most difficult artists to work with.” He rubs his forehead.
“How so?”
“Their tour bus wasn’t big enough. Their album cover took eleven thousand go-rounds to get right. The lead singer refuses to perform unless a certain type of bottled water from France is waiting for him before a show. That kind of stuff.”
I shake my head. “Seriously?”
He shrugs. “It’s bad. And then we found out that someone from SNL was a fan, and they were this close to being booked for one of the spring shows last year, but the lead singer claimed he hated SNL, so that fell through.”
I throw up my arms. “Who hates SNL?”
“Right? Anyway, the music business is filled with big personalities,” he says. “It was one part of the job I didn’t bargain for. I’m in it for the music, not the drama.” He takes a long sip of wine. “James handles most of it. He doesn’t let it get to him the way it gets to me.”
“So you’re more of the visionary and he’s the operations guy?”
“I guess you could say that,” he says. “I’ll introduce you to him sometime.”
“I’d like that,” I say with a smile, just as the smoke alarm begins to sound. I rush to the oven, where smoke is billowing out of the door. “Oh no!”
Cade leaps up and attempts to disarm the smoke alarm, but after a few tries it continues to let out an ear-piercing sound. “Damn, this thing is wired in.”
“Can you just yank it out?” I ask, reaching for an oven mitt, then pulling our now-charred dinner out of the oven.
“Should I?” he asks, laughing.
“Anything to make that sound stop,” I say, fanning the smoke away before opening the window and letting in some fresh air.
“Okay,” he says. “Here goes.” With a single tug, he breaks the smoke alarm free from its place in the wall. Severed wires dangle from the ceiling. We look at each other and laugh.
“Sorry,” I say.
“And you call yourself a food enthusiast,” he jokes.
“It was going to be good, too,” I say. “Melanzane.”
He closes his eyes and places his hand on his heart dramatically. “Don’t torture me with what might have been.”
The smoke alarm suddenly lets out a single chirp from where it sits on the kitchen counter.
“I thought we killed this thing,” Cade says.
We both hover over the device as if it quite possibly has a brain of its own.
“It’s not even battery-powered,” I say.
Cade nods. “It could be an alien.”
It chirps again, and we both laugh.
“Maybe it’s like when someone loses a limb, but they can still feel the pain.”
“A phantom limb,” Cade says.
I nod. “A phantom chirp.”
“You’re funny,” he says, chuckling.
“How do we get rid of this thing?”
He looks around. “We could stuff it under the couch cushions.”
“Or put it out in the hallway,” I say.
We laugh again, and I pause to mourn our dinner, then shake my head. “I promise, I really can cook.”
He surveys the seared disaster in the nine-by-eleven dish on the stove. “Sure you can,” he says teasingly before taking my hand. “Hey, why don’t we just go out for Thai.”
“Okay,” I say with a laugh.
As I slip on a sweater and sling my purse over my shoulder, he grabs his coat and the chirping smoke alarm. “We have a nice home for you, little fella,” he says. “And it’s called a dumpster.”
—
Twenty minutes later, we’re seated at a corner table at
Jai Thai, two blocks away, both sinking our forks into pad Thai.
“Do you ever wonder what your parents would think of you now, all grown up?” Cade asks.
“Yeah,” I say, twisting an uncooperative noodle around my fork for the third time. “I wonder if they’d be proud of me, I guess.”
“Me too,” he says. “I mean, I’m almost thirty, and yet in some ways I still feel like the kid who’s looking for his parents’ approval.”
I nod. “I still feel like a kid.”
“Do you think we always will?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe. Maybe some people always remain young at heart.”
“I hope I’m one.”
“I think you are,” I say, watching a pair of teenagers saunter by on the sidewalk outside the window. The girl stops so her boyfriend can light her cigarette. She takes a long drag, then flips her hair behind her shoulder the way every girl does when she is sixteen.
“Did you ever smoke?” I ask.
“Nah,” he says. “But I tried. Didn’t we all?”
I grin. “My first cigarette was a—”
He holds out his hand. “Wait, let me guess, a—”
“Clove,” we both say in unison before laughing.
He reaches for another spring roll, and the humor in his eyes drifts away. “It’s funny to think that our parents did all the same things we did. Smoked cloves. Got in trouble. Felt lost.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Isn’t that the great realization of adulthood?”
He nods. “Exactly, that our parents didn’t have it figured out, nor do we. Maybe no one does.”
“Exactly,” I say. “I still can’t believe my byline’s in the newspaper.”
He grins. “And how could a kid who refused to take piano lessons and could barely pick out a few notes on the bass end up running a record label?”
“Your parents would be proud,” I say with confidence. “So proud.”
He looks away, and I wonder if my comment has found a pathway straight to his heart. He purses his lips for a moment, then turns back to me. “How did your parents meet?”
“In Big Sur,” I say.
“Big Sur?”
“Yeah, they were hippies. Mom and her best friend were driving up Highway One in a Volkswagen bus, and my dad and his friend were hitchhiking on the road.”
“No way,” he says, smiling.
“They hit it off immediately, and ended up spending a weekend in Big Sur at some campground overlooking the ocean. It always sounded magical to me, at least in the way my grandmother described it.”
“I’ve never been,” Cade says.
“I’ve always wanted to go,” I say, “to retrace the steps of my parents’ love story.” I pause for a moment, remembering the stories my grandmother would tell of that dreamy time in my parents’ lives. Mom was beautiful, with golden hair, olive skin, and eyes the color of the sea. Dad was handsome for any decade, but particularly in 1971, with strong arms, a warm smile, and dark hair tied back in a ponytail. He wooed Mom with his passion for life, his dreams for the future, and his skill with the guitar (apparently he played her favorite Joan Baez song upon request and knew all the words). “They were soulmates,” I continue a little wistfully. “If you believe in that sort of thing.”
Cade shrugs. “I don’t know if I do,” he says. “I mean, I want to believe that each person gets to have one true love, someone who completes them.” He shakes his head. “But is that really the case?”
“Have you ever had your heart broken?” I ask, instead of giving him an answer.
“Yes,” he says simply.
I don’t press him for details, but I wonder about this girl who broke his heart. Was she beautiful? A musician? Someone who’s still in his life? And while I mourned a college breakup for longer than I care to admit, I don’t know that I can say whether I’ve ever had my heart broken in the true sense of the term. My heart has hurt, yes. But it hasn’t broken, not really.
“What are you keeping close to your heart?” he asks, pointing at my locket as a waitress refills our water glasses.
I immediately raise my hand to my neck and look down at the little locket I’ve worn all these years. I so rarely open it and, frankly, can’t even remember the last time I did. But it feels natural somehow to open it now, and so I finger the clasp until it releases; the tiny shell fragment, still the color of milk jade, falls into my palm, which I hold out to Cade.
“My grandfather found this shell on a beach in Normandy during the war,” I explain. “It broke, but I’ve always kept a little piece of it with me, for luck.”
“I love that,” Cade says, his eyes flashing. “I’ve been to Normandy.”
“Really?”
He nods. “My mom always wanted to see the north of France. She never got to go, so my aunt took me for her. Even though she couldn’t afford it, she put the whole thing on her credit card and we flew to Paris.” He pauses for a long moment. “Seeing my aunt cry one day at the beach.” He sighs. “It was something else.”
“Wow,” I say. “Have you been back?”
“No,” he says. “Not since then. But I’d like to.” He grins. “Maybe we could go back together and get you another one of those shells.”
I feel warm all over.
“How about this,” he continues. “Let’s make a pact that we’ll go there together, for the memories.” He touches my arm lightly. “What do you say?”
“I say yes.”
NOVEMBER 16, 2008
“Hi,” I say to Ryan, setting my keys down on the kitchen counter.
“Hi,” he says, leaning in to place a kiss on my cheek. “How did the research go?”
“Good,” I say distractedly.
“Educate me. Tell me something about our city that I don’t already know. That will surprise me.”
“Over dinner, I promise. My thoughts are scattered now,” I say, sidestepping the truth—the surprise I got at Westlake Center.
He looks at me for a long moment. I avoid his gaze.
“I hope our children get your nose,” he says. “It’s so darn cute.”
I bite my lip. “Ryan, I’m not sure if I—”
“I know, I know,” he continues, his grin melting away. “You don’t know if you’re ready for a family. I get it. I’ll be patient. I promise.”
I nod, grateful to tuck the subject away once again, not ready to discuss it. Not yet.
“Is there something bothering you, baby?” he asks like a mind reader, tucking his hand in mine.
“No, no,” I lie.
“You and Trace didn’t get into a fight or anything, did you?”
“No,” I say.
“You’re stressed,” he says. “I can tell. Is it the feature? Are you getting any interview resistance? Because I can help. I can make some calls—”
“No, it’s not that,” I say. “I’m just overwhelmed, that’s all.”
“All right,” he says, nestling in closer to me. “You just say the word, and I’ll do what you need.”
“You’re wonderful, you know,” I say as he kisses my cheek lightly. And he is, this man I’m going to marry this summer. He’s wonderful in every way; I feel a pang of guilt rise in my chest.
“Hey,” he says, reaching for an old Converse shoebox beside the bar. “My parents are coming to visit next weekend, so I thought I’d better get the guest room in shape. Anyway, I found this.”
I reach for the box filled with old postcards and letters I’ve saved over the years. I intend to sort through and dispose of them, the same way I mean to spend quality time with those bridal magazines. Buried at the bottom is a black-and-white photo I thought was lost ages ago. I lift it out, and the hair on my arms stand on end.
“Wow,” Ryan says, leaning over my shoulders. “I know you’re camera-shy, but I wish I had more pictures of you. You look gorgeous. We should have it blown up and frame it. Maybe hang it over there by the—”
“No,” I say quickly, turning the photo
over. “No, I’d rather not.”
“Oh,” Ryan says, a bit injured. “Why not? It’s a great picture from a composition standpoint.”
I blink hard, remembering how I stood on the edge of the ferry, leaning up against that kelly-green railing, wind blowing sideways against my cheek, whipping my hair this way and that. Still, I was smiling. I didn’t feel the cold. I wasn’t bothered by the wind. Cade was in front of me, his camera clicking. I look at Ryan again, his face expectant, eyes filled with love.
He tucks a wayward strand of my hair behind my left ear. “Was this taken in Seattle?”
I nod.
“You’re so quiet about that time in your past,” he says.
“It feels like a lifetime ago,” I say with an exaggerated shrug.
“Kailey,” Ryan says, locking his eyes to mine. “I want to believe that. I really do. But sometimes, in moments like this, I feel like there’s a part of your heart that I haven’t yet been given access to.” He squeezes my hand. “Tell me you’ll let me in. Because I—”
“I have let you in,” I say quickly.
“Someday I want to meet the girl in that photo,” he says with a sigh, returning to the kitchen, where he pulls the dishwasher open and begins unloading the glasses into the upper cabinet by the window.
“You know that Ryan is a rare specimen,” Tracy told me after I started dating him four years ago. “An anomaly in the sea of men.” And she was, and is, right. Of every woman I know, none of their husbands or boyfriends helps out around the house, and yet Ryan insists on changing the sheets, folding laundry, and keeping the sink free of dishes.
“So, I thought that when my parents are here next weekend, we could take them to the Fairmont, show them the ballroom where the reception will be.”
“Sure,” I say absentmindedly.
“My mom would love that,” Ryan continues. “She asked me the color of the walls.” He gives me a knowing grin. “You know how she loves to color-coordinate.”
I force a smile. “Then let’s do it.”
Part of me is envious of Ryan, with his loving parents who are interested in their children’s lives. And yet, I suppose I’m ultimately jealous of anyone who has parents. As much as I’ve always been eager to gain a set of parents when I say “I do,” from day one there’s been something forced about the relationship with my soon-to-be in-laws. Ryan’s dad, Bennett, a banker who spends almost all of his free time at the country club, is nice enough, but I struggle to connect with him on any real level. Ryan’s mom, Melinda, is perpetually manicured and coiffed, clad in overpriced designer outfits she’ll wear only once to the lunches and galas that litter her schedule. High-maintenance, with the emphasis on high.
