She came closer, smiling now. “You gave her a chance, Joe.”
“We’ll see what Stu says, but yeah. Maybe. I hope so.”
Gina touched his arm. “Diana would be proud of you. So am I.”
“Thanks.”
“Come sit with us in the waiting room. You’ve been alone long enough. It’s time to start your new life.”
“There’s something I need to take care of first.”
“Promise me you’ll come back.”
“I promise.”
An hour later, he was on the ferry headed to Bainbridge Island. He stood at the railing on the upper deck as the ferry turned into Eagle Harbor. The pretty little bay seemed to welcome him, with all its well-maintained homes and the sailboats clustered at the marina. He was glad to see that it looked the same; still more trees than houses, and the beachfront hadn’t been cut into narrow lots.
This is it, Joey. This is where I want to raise our kids.
His fingers tightened around the railing. That day hadn’t been so long ago—maybe ten years—but it felt like forever. He and Diana had been so young and hope-filled. It had never occurred to either one of them that they wouldn’t be together forever.
That one of them would have to go on alone.
The ferry honked its horn.
Joe returned to his truck, below deck. When the boat docked, he drove off.
Memories came at him from every street corner and sign.
Pick up that armoire for me, won’t you, Joey, it’s at Bad Blanche’s.
Let’s go to the winery today. I want to smell the grapes.
Forget dinner, Joey, take me to bed or lose me.
He turned onto his old road. The trees were huge here; they towered in the air and blocked out the sun. The quiet road lay shadowed and still. There wasn’t a house to be seen out here, just mailboxes and driveways that led off to the right.
At the last one, he slowed down.
Their mailbox was still there. Dr. and Mrs. Joe Wyatt. It had been one of Diana’s first purchases after they’d closed on the house.
He drove down his long, tree-lined driveway. The house—his house—sat in a patch of grassy sunlight beside a wide gravel beach. It was a pretty little Cape Cod–style home with cedar shingles and glossy white trim.
The wisteria had gone wild, he noticed, growing thick and green along the porch railings, around the posts and up some of the exterior walls.
He was moving slowly now, breathing hard, as he left the safety of his car and walked toward the house.
The first thing he noticed was the smell. The salty tang of sea air mixed with the sweetness of blooming roses.
He found the key in his wallet—the one he’d kept especially for this day.
In truth, there had been weeks, months even, when he’d never believed he’d find the guts to reach for it again.
The key fit the lock, clicked.
Joe opened the door—
Honey, I’m home
—and went inside.
The place looked exactly as he’d left it. He still remembered the day he’d come home from court—supposedly an innocent man (no, a not-guilty one)—and packed a suitcase. The only phone call he’d made had been to Gina. I’m sorry, he’d said, too tired to be eloquent. I need to go.
I’ll take care of the place, she’d answered, crying. You’ll be back.
I don’t know, he’d said. How can I?
And yet, here he was. True to her word, Gina had taken care of the place. She’d paid the taxes and the bills from the money he’d left in a special account. No dust collected on the furniture or windowsills, no spiderwebs hung from the high pitched ceilings.
He walked from room to room, touching things, remembering. Every stick of furniture reminded him of a time and place.
This chair is perfect, Joey, don’t you think? You can sit in it to watch TV.
Every knickknack had a story. Like a blind man, he moved slowly, putting his hands on everything, as if somehow touch elicited the memories more than sight.
Finally, he was in the master bedroom. The sight of it was almost too much. He forced himself to go forward. It was all still there. The big antique bed they’d gotten from Mom and Dad as a wedding present, the beautiful quilt that had come to them on Dad’s death. The old nightstands that had once been piled with books—romance novels on her side, military histories on his. Even the tiny needlepoint pillow that Diana had made when she first got sick.
He sat down on the bed and picked up the pillow, seeing the tiny brown spots that marred the fabric.
I don’t think needlework is a good therapy. I’m losing so much blood I’m getting light-headed.
“Hey, Diana,” he said, wishing for the days when he’d been able to conjure her image. He stroked the pillow, trying to remember how it had felt to touch her. “I was at the hospital today. It felt good.”
He knew what she’d say to that. But he didn’t really know if he was ready to go back. His life had changed so much, degraded somehow into tiny bits that might not fit together again.