Blackberry Winter

Chapter 12




CLAIRE

I ducked my head as I stepped out of the elevator at the office the next day, purposely taking the long, winding route through the sea of gray cubicles. It seemed silly to take such extreme measures to avoid my own husband, but after last night’s exchange, I didn’t have the heart, or the strength, to face him. Besides, I’d slept in an empty bed again. I knew he probably had stayed at the hospital with Warren, but still, he hadn’t even called to let me know. Since when had he become the husband who considered coming home optional?

The sun had returned to Seattle, and the warmer weather had Frank particularly agitated. “How’s the story coming?” he asked from the doorway of my cubicle a mere ten seconds after I’d planted my butt in the chair.

I swiveled around to face him. “Good morning to you, too.”

“I’m not sure if you’ve noticed,” he said, pointing to the window, “but the snow has melted. Before readers forget about the storm entirely, I was kinda hoping to get your story to press. You told me you’d have it to me today, but that’s obviously not going to happen, so maybe I can get it, I dunno, before Thanksgiving?” He plucked a gnawed pencil from his shirt pocket and inserted it in his mouth. He remained the only boss whom I found adorable when he was mad at me.

“Listen, Frank,” I said, folding my arms with deliberation. “You knew this story was going to be a goose chase going into it.”

He put the pencil back in his shirt pocket. “You’re right,” he said. “But I didn’t think it would be such an epic goose chase.”

I glanced at my notebook, wishing I had more to show for the past days’ research. “Frank, it’s like someone erased this little boy from history.”

“So you’re saying you don’t have a single lead?” he said with a sigh.

“Well,” I continued, “I found a child’s drawing with the name Eva Morelandsteed written on the back.”

“A child’s drawing?” By the look on his face, I gathered he wasn’t thrilled.

“I think she might be related to the missing boy, somehow. Perhaps a sister, or a friend.”

“Well,” he said, “I’m taking you off the story.”

“What?”

“Claire, you’re my best reporter. I can’t keep you on a story that’s not going to pan out.” He set a file on my desk. “We have a lot of stuff to cover this month.”

I looked at the green file folder begrudgingly. “What is this?”

He spoke to the tabletop. “A press kit for Seattle Cultural Days. I want you to write the promo pieces.”

“You have to be kidding me, Frank,” I said. “An advertorial?” Frank knew very well that any self-respecting reporter would rather gouge her eyes out than write ad copy.

“Yes,” he said blankly. “I just got word from advertising. It’s a two-page spread. It needs to run by next week.”

I shook my head. “I can’t believe this.”

He took a step closer. “I’m worried about you, Claire. You haven’t been yourself for a long time.”

I shook my head. “Why would you say that?”

“Well,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “it’s just that you’ve never failed to meet a deadline.”

I ran my fingers through my hair. He was right. I’d feared I’d lost my reporter’s instinct, my edge, and Frank had confirmed it. What’s happening to me?

I picked up the green folder and opened it. “Don’t worry,” I said, turning to face my computer. “I’ll get this done. Just give me the weekend and I promise you’ll have it on Monday.”

“Claire, listen,” Frank began, “I didn’t mean to hurt you; I was just—”

“It’s fine,” I said stiffly, clenching my fists under my desk. “I’m sorry I let you down. I thought I could write it. I thought I could find that little boy.”

Frank nodded and walked out to the hallway.

A few moments later I heard footsteps approaching. “Knock, knock.” I turned to see Abby at the door, with a big box in her hands. “Morning.”

“Morning,” I said, punctuating the word with an exaggerated sigh.

“Oh, no,” she said. “What is it?”

“I think my career may be over, and Ethan didn’t come home last night,” I replied, unable to take my eyes off the green folder.

“Your career is not over,” she said. “You’re one of, if not the best reporter on staff. And as far as your husband goes, fill me in.”

I sighed. “Thanks, but I’d rather not talk about it right now. I might lose it. You remember our rule about not crying at work.”

Abby smiled, holding out the box to me. “Here.”

“What is it?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know, but it has your name on it. Jenna brought it to my office by mistake.”

I set the box on my desk and reached for the scissors in my drawer to release the tape, which is when I noticed the return address. “Abby, this is from Swedish Hospital.” I felt my heartbeat’s pace quicken. “What could they possibly be sending me?”

I hated that something as simple as the hospital’s logo on the mailing label could create such a visceral response in me. I could hear the beeping of the blood pressure monitor on my arm, see the vivid blue of the curtain in the emergency room, taste the salty tears streaming from my eyes. In an instant, I felt the horror of the accident all over again. I closed my eyes, trying to block the memories, to shut them out, sending them back to the hospital, where I had left them. But when I opened my eyes again, they were there before me, waiting to be confronted.

“Claire,” Abby said quietly, “what is it?”

Anger surged through me as I yanked one flap of cardboard open, then another. What are they sending me? They’d called repeatedly for follow-up appointments, but I never returned the messages. Don’t they know that every call, every damn bill in the mail, is a reminder of my loss? And now this? Can’t they just leave me alone? An envelope was taped to the inside flap of the box. I tore it open.

Dear Ms. Aldridge,

We’ve tried to reach you multiple times about picking up personal items left behind during your hospital stay. The only address we had on record was your employer’s. It is our policy to return belongings to our patients.

Best wishes,

Katie Morelandsteed



I cautiously peered inside the box and pulled out a ribbed gray sweatshirt. It was a mangled mess, ripped at the side by the ambulance driver—a vague memory that came full focus again—with a bloodstain along the sleeve. I remembered the moment I’d purchased it. Ethan and I had gone shopping for maternity clothes at the Gap. I’d strapped on one of those prosthetic stuffed bellies and paraded out of the fitting room, giving him the shock of his life.

“Your stomach!” he exclaimed. “It looks…”

“Huge?” I grinned, lifting up the edge of the sweatshirt to reveal the padding underneath. “Did I fool you?”

“You did,” he said, a bit relieved. “For a second there, I thought we might be having twins.”

That day, I bought the sweatshirt in three colors, several pairs of pants, all with thick, stretchy elastic waistbands, and a black wraparound dress that Fit Pregnancy magazine had claimed to be the most flattering look for moms-to-be. I winced at the memory, setting the sweatshirt aside before pulling out a pair of black leggings with a jagged hole in the knee. Underneath were my underwear and sports bra, neatly folded into a bundle. Why did they even bother returning this stuff? Why couldn’t they just…burn it? At the bottom of the box lay my running shoes. I had others in my closet, but these had been my favorite pair. Mud-stained, perfectly broken in, they’d traveled with me down miles of rainy Seattle streets, across the finish line of several grueling races, but I couldn’t look at them then. They’d betrayed me.

I tossed the shoes and ragged clothing back into the box, and looked up at Abby. “Is there a Dumpster outside somewhere?”

Abby knelt down next to me. “Claire,” she whispered, “maybe you shouldn’t be so quick to throw all of this away.”

My eyes burned, and I quickly wiped a stray tear from my cheek, annoyed by its presence.

“Oh, honey,” she said. “Come here.” She wrapped her arm around my shoulder, and I leaned against her, breathing in her lavender perfume. “You used to love to run,” she continued. “Why don’t you try again?”

“I can’t,” I said, shaking my head. “I won’t.”

She reached into the box and pulled out my old running shoes. “Just the same,” she said, “let’s keep these. Toss the clothes if you like, but these shoes need to stay.” She tucked them under my desk. “When you’re ready, put them on.”

“I’ll never be ready,” I said.

“You will,” Abby countered. “After my dad died, Mom kept all his clothes in the closet, exactly as he’d left them. They gathered dust for three years before she found the strength to face them again. I was only thirteen, but I remember the day she opened up that old closet and pulled one of the shirts from the hanger. She set it on the bed and lay next to it for a long time, crying, remembering. It took a lot of strength to do that. Strength and time. My point is that Mom needed that closure, and if she’d had someone box up his clothes the week after he died like Aunt Pam suggested, she’d never have had the opportunity to face her sadness, to find her own closure. Everyone grieves and heals at her own pace, honey. Give yourself time.”

I stared at the shoes under my desk, wishing, as I had every day since the accident, that I’d stayed home instead of going on that damn jog. “I don’t know, Abby,” I said, looking away from the shoes.

“Trust me,” she replied, closing the flaps of the box and setting it outside. “So, did you find the kid?”

“No. Frank took me off the story.” I pointed to the file of information for the ad copy I had been assigned. “I’m now writing the special advertising section for next week.”

Abby frowned. “No, he didn’t.” She knew as well as I that getting an ad copy assignment was the equivalent of being grounded.

“Yes, he did.”

“Maybe I can talk to him,” she offered.

“I wouldn’t bother,” I said. “He had the look.”

Abby folded her arms. “Well, I think you should continue your research anyway. Surprise him with a draft. I don’t think you should quit this story, Claire.”

“But Frank doesn’t want it,” I said, shrugging. “Even if I did turn something in, it would be too late. The snow’s melted. Everyone’s moved on. I think I lost this one.”

“No,” she said. “You didn’t lose it. You’ve only scratched the surface.” Her eyes narrowed. “Listen, honey, I’ve seen you work on hundreds of stories, and never has one gotten under your skin like this little boy’s. Write it. Even if it’s only for you. Besides, I want to know what happened.”

“I do too,” I said, before pulling my notebook from my bag and setting it on top of the green folder. “Yes,” I said, with more assurance in my voice. “I’ll finish this story.”

“Good girl,” she said.

I glanced at the running shoes under my desk and then back at Abby. “You know what’s funny?” I picked up the letter from the hospital. “That name, Morelandsteed. It’s the same name on the back of a child’s drawing I found.”

She grinned. “You think there’s some connection?”

I shrugged. “That would be a pretty crazy coincidence,” I said, my reporter’s curiosity piqued. “But it’s an unusual name. Who knows?”

“Follow up on it,” she said, nodding and turning to the door. “I’m here till six if you need me.”

“Thanks,” I replied, looking back to my computer screen, where I keyed in the hospital’s URL. Once I found the general number, I picked up the phone.

“Yes, hi,” I said to the hospital operator. “I’m trying to reach an employee by the name of Katie Morelandsteed.”

“Just a moment,” the woman replied.

“This is Katie,” chirped a voice a few seconds later.

“Uh, hi, Katie, this is Claire Aldridge, from the Seattle Herald. I mean, well, here’s the thing. You sent me a package recently. A box of—”

“Yes, Claire,” she said. “Of course. I hope you don’t mind that we mailed the box to your workplace. For some reason we didn’t have your home address on file. And, well, anyway, we’ve been trying to reach you for some time. You might think it strange for us to send you all your clothes from the accident, but we’ve found that acknowledging the remnants of a tragedy can really help our patients heal, and help them—”

“Yes,” I said, cutting her off, “it’s fine. I’m actually calling about something else. I hope you don’t mind my asking, but you don’t, by chance, happen to be related to a woman named Eva Morelandsteed? It’s a shot in the dark, really; I—”

“Well, actually, yes,” she said. “I have a great-aunt named Eva.”

My jaw dropped. “Really?”

“Yeah, she lives in Seattle, right by Pike Place. She’s in her eighties, but you’d never know it. Aunt Eva’s as sharp as a whip. Wait, how is it that you know her?”

“It’s sort of a long story,” I said. “I’m working on an article, and I found something with her name on it from a long time ago. I hoped to contact her.”

“Sure,” Katie said. “I have her phone number in my cell phone. Let me pull it up for you. She was a librarian for decades, so she’s always supportive of research. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”

A few moments later, I scrawled the number down on a scrap of paper. “Thank you, Katie.”

“Of course.”

I hung up the phone and then punched the numbers in quickly. The phone rang once, twice, three times.

“Hello?”

“Ms. Morelandsteed? Eva Morelandsteed?”

“This is she.”

“Hi,” I said, clearing my throat. “My name is Claire Aldridge. I’m a reporter with the Seattle Herald. I apologize for bothering you, but your niece, Katie, gave me your phone number, and, well, I’m working on a story about the storm that hit Seattle in May of 1933, and I came across some information about a little boy named Daniel Ray.” I paused, waiting for Eva’s response, but the line was quiet. “Ms. Morelandsteed? Are you still there?”

“Yes,” she said. “You’ll have to forgive me. I haven’t heard that name in a very long time.”

I sat up straighter in my chair. “So you know him? Or, rather, you knew him?”

“I did,” she said. “It was so long ago.”

My heart beat faster.

“How did you say you found my name?” she asked suspiciously.

“On a drawing,” I said. “A child’s drawing over at Café Lavanto.”

“Well,” she said, a stiff practicality tingeing the edges of her voice, “I’m not sure how I can help you. I was just a small child when he went missing.”

“Could we meet in person?” I had learned early on as a reporter that people always divulge more in person than they do on the phone. A senator had once confessed his marital affair to me at a lunch interview at Canlis restaurant during the salad course. I remember crunching into a bite of romaine when he told me about the shade of his mistress’s eyes. “Perhaps when we talk, you’ll remember something. Even a small detail might help.”

“Well,” she said, her voice softening a bit, “I suppose that would be all right. Would you like to come by tomorrow morning?”

“I would love that.”

“Good,” she replied. “I live in the Brighton Towers, a retirement home near the Market.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“You know,” she added, her voice trailing off, lost in memories, “my nephew took me up to Nordstrom last week, and we passed the old apartment building.”

“You mean Daniel and Vera’s?”

“Yes,” she said. “It warmed me to see that the old place hadn’t been torn down. It’s a café now, right?”

“Yes, Café Lavanto.”

“Developers treat old buildings like weeds,” she said. “They can’t wait to tear them down so they can build their fancy high-rise condominiums. They don’t know that they’re destroying history, and people’s memories, with their wrecking balls. Whoever owns that building is a good person, keeping it intact.”

I smiled to myself. “I happen to know the owner,” I said. “And he’s a great guy.”

“All right, dear,” Eva said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Good-bye.”

A moment later, an e-mail popped up in my in-box. The subject line read, “Can’t wait to see you!” I looked at my desk calendar, where “visit with Emily” was written in blue ink on the slot for the afternoon. I’d promised my old friend Emily Wilson a visit. She’d moved to Bainbridge Island a few years ago, where she lived with her husband, Jack, in an old colonial owned by her ailing great aunt. I opened her e-mail.

If you want to take the 12:00 ferry, I can pick you up at the terminal at 12:45. You won’t believe how big the twins are. xoxo

I’d only seen her babies once, when they were just two weeks old. Ethan and I had visited when I was newly pregnant. We shared the news with them then, and I’ll never forget holding one of her twins, marveling at how I’d soon be cradling my own baby. She’d felt so delicate, so light. I remember feeling frightened by her little cry, wondering if I was prepared for motherhood. It came so naturally to Emily. She’d lifted the baby out of my arms with such ease, nestling the child to her breast as if she’d done it thousands of times before. I had looked down at my own belly, where a baby was growing inside, wondering if I’d be a good mother, like Emily seemed to be. I closed my eyes tightly, pushing the memory deeper into my mind, forcing it back into its dark corner. I looked at the clock on my desk. Already eleven thirty. I’d have to race to catch a cab to the terminal.



I sank into a booth on the ferry and leaned against the vinyl seat, gazing out at the V-shaped wake the vessel carved through the salty water. Seagulls flapped alongside the aging vessel, yelping and squawking, as if challenging it to a race. Eventually the outspoken birds tired of the game and flapped away.

Ethan loved the island. His parents had a beach cabin there, and we made regular trips. The four-bedroom home overlooking Eagle Harbor, however, was hardly a cabin, in the typical sense. It had a five-piece bathroom, a balcony off the master, and a chef’s kitchen, where Ethan would make buttermilk pancakes for me in the mornings. But lately he had been going alone. When my mom stayed on to care for me after the accident, Ethan spent six days at the cabin. My mom never forgave him for that. But as much as I had been hurt by his absence, in some way I’d understood. He had needed to grieve in his own way. He’d come home unshaven, with eyes that seemed vacant, distant.

I reached for my laptop, in its black leather case, and plugged the power cord into an outlet below the bench seat. The Word document I’d saved as “Daniel-Ray-Feature” contained only a title, “Blackberry Winter: The Story of a Lost Boy in the Snowstorm of 1933.” I stared at the flashing cursor and wrote a few sentences, then a few more. By the time the ferry’s horn sounded, announcing our approach to the island, I had written an introduction I was proud of. Will I be able to finish the rest? Will I ever figure out what happened to Daniel Ray?

A short walk down the ramp to the terminal and I spotted Emily, waving her arm out of the driver’s side window of her aunt’s green 1963 Volkswagen Beetle. “You made it!” she called out, her voice muted by the sound of the engine.

I opened the passenger side door and tucked my bag and laptop case inside before turning to look at the backseat, half-expecting to see the twins tucked into their car seats.

“They’re at home with Jack,” Emily said, as if reading my mind. She looked happy, with her rosy cheeks and wispy blond hair tucked back into a simple ponytail. The pear-shaped diamond, studded with rubies, on her hand sparkled in the sun that streamed through the window. Emily had recounted the story of the ring to me once. It had belonged to a woman Jack’s grandfather had loved a long time ago. I don’t remember the details of the tale entirely, but it exuded love from decades past. You could feel it when you looked at it. “Twenty months old yesterday,” she said. “Can you believe it?” Her happiness, so apparent, may as well have been written all over her with a permanent marker.

“I can’t wait to see them!” I said. It was a true statement, and yet if I was honest with myself, I’d admit that I was apprehensive, too. For every milestone of their lives would be a reminder of my loss.

“Sorry, Claire,” she said suddenly. “I know you’ve been through so much this year. Is it too hard for you to be around…?”

“Babies?”

“Yeah,” she replied cautiously. “I don’t know how you’re holding up so well. I’d be in pieces.”

There was no sense lying to an old friend. “I am in pieces.”

“Oh, Claire,” she said, her eyes narrowed, reflecting my pain. “I’m so sorry. I just grieve for you. Listen, if it’s hard for you to see the babies, just let me know. I just fed them, so we can go out for lunch instead. We don’t have to go back to the house.”

I placed my hand on Emily’s arm and gave it a firm squeeze. “I want to see them. It would break my heart not to.”

“You’re amazing, you know,” she said, navigating the car out of the ferry terminal. “You really get friendship.”

“What do you mean?”

“My aunt Bee has always said that contrary to what most people think, the definition of a true friend is not someone who swoops in when you’re going through a rough patch.” She shook her head. “Anyone can do that. True friendship, she says, is when someone can appreciate your happiness—celebrate your happiness, even—when she’s not necessarily happy herself.” She looked at me with appreciative eyes. “That’s you, Claire.”

My eyes brightened. “Thanks, Em.”

She turned her gaze from the road for a moment. “I really mean that.”

“I bet they’re huge now, the twins,” I said, pausing to look out the window. The island’s lush evergreens whooshed by. “What’s it like, motherhood?”

Emily sighed, clasping the wheel a little tighter. “It’s frightening and wonderful all at the same time. And exhausting. I’ll tell you, honestly, for about a month after their birth, I secretly wanted to send them back.”

I giggled.

“I’m not lying, Claire,” she said. “I’ll never forget the moment when Jack came into the bedroom one night and one of the babies was crying in his arms; the other was crying in her crib. It was somewhere around two a.m. I was so tired. Sick tired. I sat up and dangled my legs off the side of the bed, and all I could think was, I’ve made the worst mistake of my life.” She shook her head. “But I got through it. The adjustment period, that is. Now I can’t imagine life any other way.” She turned down the winding road that led to her aunt’s property, and gave me a quick smile.

“I bet Jack is a wonderful father,” I said.

“He’s amazing with them,” she agreed. “He’s taking them on a walk along the beach right now. We got one of those double jogger strollers with those enormous turbocharged wheels that can handle the barnacles.”

“How’s your aunt Bee?” I asked. I wasn’t certain of her age—late eighties, possibly nineties, even—but she didn’t fit the mold of an elderly woman. When I’d visited Emily on the island the first time, Bee had offered me a shot of whiskey.

Emily sighed. “She hasn’t been well,” she said. “The doctor says it’s her heart. They have her on all kinds of medications now. She’s in bed most of the time. I take care of her during the day, and we have a nurse who tends to her at night.” She shook her head. “Bee just hates being cooped up in the house. I caught her trying to sneak down to the beach yesterday afternoon. The poor thing is so frail, she nearly fell off the bulkhead.”

“Sorry to hear that,” I said. “It must be so hard to see her deteriorate.”

“It is,” she replied. “And it sounds strange, but the house feels different without her at the helm. Something’s changed. I can feel it. Does that even make sense?”

“I know what you’re saying. When my grandma got sick years ago, the old house took on a different feeling too,” I said. “Like the soul had been sucked from the walls.”

“That’s exactly it,” Emily agreed. “Jack and I moved in with her right after we were married. Bee insisted. At first I worried the arrangement wouldn’t work, but we came to love it. It’s funny, I think we needed Bee just as much as she needed us. Her health has declined quickly, though, and the changes frighten me. She no longer mills about at six o’clock in the morning, or comments on the sea life outside the window. The newspapers pile up in the entryway because she doesn’t read them. The New Yorkers too. I actually cried the other day when I pulled the last jar of her homemade jam from the freezer. I stood there realizing that it may be the last jar I’d ever enjoy. She’s still here, of course, but I’m starting to miss her already.”

I ached for her, because I knew the type of sadness she spoke of. “I’m not sure what’s more difficult,” I said. “Losing someone quickly or gradually, over time.”

Emily wiped away a tear on her cheek with the edge of her hand. “Bee’ll be happy to see you. She loves visitors.”

She slowed the car as we approached the house. I stared out the window at the rhododendrons in bloom along the roadside, in shades of deep red, light purple, white, and coral. The road wound its way down to the waterfront, where the old white colonial gazed out at the Puget Sound. It looked wise, with its black shutters and stately columns. Wise and a little sad.

“Here we are,” Emily said, opening the car door. I stepped out and followed her along the pathway to the front door, where an empty double jogger stroller was parked.

“Mommy’s home,” Emily cooed into the entryway. I heard a chorus of giggles from somewhere inside, and a moment later Jack appeared holding two cherubs dressed in pink.

“Hi Jack,” I said, smiling. “Look at you. You’re a natural.”

Emily rubbed his back lovingly. “He gets up every morning with the babies so I can write.”

“Did she tell you?” Jack said, turning to me.

I shook my head. “What?”

“She wrote a second novel. It’s being published this winter.”

I smiled. “That’s fantastic, Emily!”

“Well,” she said, looking out toward the water, “I owe it to this place. It’s magic. I’ve never felt so creative. Anyway, come in! I know you don’t have much time, so let’s savor every second.”

We walked to the living room, and Jack set the twins down on a blanket scattered with toys. “They’re beautiful,” I said.

“Nora is a firecracker,” Emily said, pointing to the larger of the two, who swiped a rattle from her sister’s hands. “She already argues with me.”

I laughed. “Your Mini-Me?”

Emily nodded. “I’m in for it. But Evelyn—we call her Evie—is our little peacemaker. The girls still share a crib, and when Nora wakes up crying, Evie pats her head. It’s the sweetest thing.”

“Adorable,” I said, handing Evie another toy.

Jack gestured toward the hallway. “Why don’t you take her to visit Bee?” he said to Emily. “She’s usually up from her nap about now.”

“Yes,” Emily said, “Bee would love to see you.”

I nodded and stood up, following Emily to a closed door at the end of the hallway. She knocked quietly, and moments later, we heard a feeble but friendly, “Come in.”

Bee wore a white nightgown. She lay in her bed, propped up by pillows. A stack of books and magazines sat untouched on a table to her right. She stared blankly out the open window, where waves rolled quietly onto the shore.

“Hello, dear,” Bee said, sitting up.

Emily saw the breeze rustling the curtains and ran to close the window. “Bee, you must be frozen,” she scolded, pulling an extra blanket from a nearby chair and draping it over her aunt.

“I miss the sea air,” Bee said. “I’d rather freeze to death than do without it.”

“Well,” Emily said, fiddling with the thermostat, “fair enough. But let’s at least turn the heat up a bit in here.”

Bee reached for a pair of glasses on the table. “Oh, you have company.”

“Yes,” Emily said. “You remember my old friend Claire, don’t you, Bee?”

“Of course, Claire,” she said, waving me over to her. “How are you, dear?”

“As well as can be,” I said to Bee. “And you?”

“Well,” she said sarcastically, “as well as one can be cooped up in this damn bed all day.”

Her voice may have been feeble, but I was happy to see that her spirit remained strong.

“You’re a writer, like Emily, aren’t you, dear?”

I nodded. “Yes, I am. Emily and I met in college. She chose the more glamorous life of fiction, while I hit the gritty newsroom.”

Bee smiled. “Oh, I remember. You write for the newspaper.”

“Yes,” I said. “The Seattle Herald.”

“What are you working on right now, dear? I read the paper cover to cover.” I remembered the stack of newspapers I’d seen piled up outside the bedroom door.

“I’m working on a particularly interesting story right now,” I said. “About a little boy who disappeared in 1933. The day of the May snowstorm.”

Bee looked startled. “I haven’t thought about that snowstorm in a long time,” she said.

“You remember it?”

She smiled, her eyes lost in memories. “I was just a girl. We were living in West Seattle then. Mother let us play in the snow all morning. It was a dream come true for a schoolgirl hoping to get out of her morning arithmetic lesson. And what a shock to all of us. Snow in May. The cold snap we had this week reminded me of it. So what did you say the little boy’s name was again?”

“Daniel,” I said. “Daniel Ray. Probably no chance you’d remember him, right?”

“Sorry,” she said. “I wish I did.” She folded her hands together thoughtfully. “But you might try talking to an old friend of mine. Lillian Sharpe. Well, she was Lillian Winchester when we went to school together in Seattle. Our families were old friends. Her father was one of Seattle’s most prominent attorneys in the 1930s. He took on several famous cases. I remember Lill thinking his work was very dull when we were young, but she became quite fascinated by his legacy as an adult. After he passed, she collected all of his files and donated most of them to a museum in Seattle. He took on some high-profile cases back then. Most have long since been forgotten, of course, but let’s see….” She paused, as if trying very hard to make the wheels in her mind turn faster. “Yes, he represented the woman who shot her husband. It was the talk of Seattle, that case. You should interview Lillian. It’s probably a long shot, but maybe she knows something about your missing boy.”

“I’d love to talk to her,” I said. “I’ll look her up when I’m back in Seattle.”

“I just saw her yesterday,” Bee said. “At the soda fountain. She didn’t like Esther much, but Evelyn…”

Emily gave me a knowing look, then rubbed her aunt’s arm affectionately. “Bee, you must be remembering something from the past. We didn’t go to the soda fountain yesterday.”

Bee looked startled, then embarrassed. “Oh yes,” she said. “Of course. The days sort of jumble together sometimes.”

“I’m lucky if I can remember the year lately,” I chimed in.

Bee gave me an appreciative grin, then reached for my hand. “It’s nice of you,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “What?”

“It’s nice of you to care about a story from the past,” she continued. “So many young people don’t give a hootenanny about anything that doesn’t involve the here and now.”

“Well,” I said, “the story captured me the moment I learned of it. There’s just something about a mother and her little boy separated. I couldn’t not pursue it.” I didn’t have the heart to tell her that my editor had killed the story. For me, however, it was very much alive.

Bee nodded. “You’ll find your little boy,” she said assuredly.

“I hope so,” I said, standing up.

“Did you take your medicine?” Emily asked, hovering over her like a mother hen.

Bee smirked and turned to me. “She’s always nagging me about my medicine, this one.”

Emily grinned. “Someone’s got to keep that heart ticking.”

“It’s nice to have someone nagging,” she whispered to me. “Frankly, I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

“All right, you,” Emily said, pulling down the shade. “Time for rest. And no more open windows. You’ll catch pneumonia.”

“Good-bye, Claire,” Bee said, shifting positions. “I hope you’ll come visit again. I’ll be looking for your story.”

“I’ll send you a copy,” I said, walking to the hallway.



I caught the six o’clock ferry home, and Gene greeted me where the cab dropped me off. “You just missed Ethan,” he said.

“Oh?” I hadn’t heard from him all day; not that I expected to. We held grudges. If there were going to be an undoing of our marriage, that would be it.

“Yeah,” Gene continued. “He was all dressed up. In a tux. Left in a cab ten minutes ago.”

Where would my husband be going in a tux? Without me? My heart filled with the lonely realization that he was slipping away from me, like sand between my fingers. I could stop this. I could find him and take him into my arms. Tell him I love him. We could end this nonsense. The painful memories of the past began to seep into my mind, but I shooed them away. Reconciliation. It’s what my therapist had been pushing for all along. One of us needed to make the first step, she’d said. One of us needed to grab the other by the collar and say, ‘Look at us! We’re dying! We can fix this! We love each other!’ I’d been thinking about making that first step for months, but each time I tried to take one forward, we took two steps back, sometimes three. Not this time. I nodded to myself and held my hand out to the driver. “Wait a sec, please!” I yelled, before whipping my head back to Gene. “Did he say where he was going?”

“Yes, some big event at the Olympic Hotel.” He looked nervous, as if he worried he’d just divulged a marriage-shattering secret. “I, um, assumed you were joining him.”

“Thanks, Gene,” I said, ducking back into the cab. I turned to the driver. “Can you take me to the Olympic Hotel?”

I clasped my hands together nervously as the cab approached the old building. I marveled at its ornate facade and intricate columns. Valets buzzed like bees, plucking keys and flying incoming cars off to inconspicuous parking garages. A couple arrived in a shiny black Mercedes-Benz a few feet ahead. The woman’s sequined dress sparkled as she took her date’s hand, shimmying her svelte body out of the car in five-inch heels. I glanced down at my own shoes, a pair of worn gray ballet flats with a black scuff on the right toe that I hadn’t bothered to buff out. I tried in vain to smooth the wrinkles from my shirt. When a tube of lipstick didn’t turn up in my purse, I ran a nervous hand through my wind-whipped hair. I regretted sitting on the outside deck of the ferry on the return trip to Seattle; the salty breeze had pulverized my hair into a mangled mess. I gathered my straggly locks into a tight bunch and tucked it into the rubber band I pulled from my wrist. I handed the driver a ten-dollar bill and stepped out of the cab.

I approached a doorman clad in a black trench coat. “Is there an event happening here tonight?” I asked, peering through the gold-trimmed glass doors ahead, trying to make out the scene.

He eyed me suspiciously. “Yes. It’s invitation only.” He turned toward a young woman, no more than twenty-five, a few feet away. She clutched a clipboard. The PR type. “Talk to Lisa,” he said to me. “You have to be on the list.”

“Hi,” I said to her. “I’m Claire Aldridge.”

She scanned the clipboard and then looked back at me with a satisfied smirk. “Sorry,” she said. “I can’t seem to find your name.”

I shook my head. “No, no,” I said. “I’m not here for the event. My husband’s inside.”

She looked doubtful, as if considering the possibility that I was making up a creative story to get access. “If you’re not on the list, you’re not on the list.”

“Listen,” I said, “my husband is—” Just then I spotted Ethan. The scene was a bit blurred through the glass doors, but he looked handsome; that much was clear. Tuxedos were made for Ethan. He held a champagne flute to his lips, then nodded and waved at someone across the room. The man knew how to work a crowd. I recalled the way he’d weaved through the tables at our wedding reception with such ease and grace, while I’d plodded along behind him awkwardly, dreading the nonstop stream of well-wishes and mandatory hugging. Social anxiety, my therapist said. Lots of people have it. Not Ethan. Inside, the room sparkled, from the enormous crystal chandelier overhead to the glint of the jewels draped around women’s necks.

I pointed to Ethan. I didn’t feel like Mrs. Ethan Kensington. Instead I was thirteen again, lanky, wearing cutoff jeans and a Hypercolor T-shirt, nose pressed against the rusty chain-link fence behind my junior high school, alone, watching the popular girls play basketball. This time, I spoke up. “See?” I said. “My husband’s right there. Ethan Kensington.”

She looked at me with scrutinizing eyes, as if it were a good possibility I only wanted to score free champagne and all-you-can-eat stuffed mushrooms and crudités. “Listen,” she said, “I can’t let you inside if you don’t have an invitation.”

My heart lightened when I saw Ethan turn toward the entrance. He’d bound through the doors, and I’d run to him. I’d take his cheeks in my hands and tell him I was ready to end this war. Ready to try again. He set an empty champagne flute down on a waiter’s tray and selected two more. He smiled as he walked toward the foyer. I waved. But then my heart sank when a woman walked toward him and kissed him on the cheek. He handed her the second glass of champagne. I was so close, I could see the fizzy bubbles in the glass. It took a second before I realized who she was, and then it hit me like an arrow to the heart.

Cassandra.

I shuddered, watching them together. They smiled. They laughed. She placed her hand on his arm flirtatiously. Part of me wanted to charge through the doors and tear her hand off of my husband’s sleeve. Instead, I reached into my bag and fished out my cell phone. I dialed Ethan’s number, and held the phone to my ear. A moment later, I watched through the doors as he pulled his phone out of his pocket. He glanced at the screen, said something to Cassandra, and walked a few steps toward the door. I slunk back, worried he would see me through the glass.

“Claire?” His voice sounded distant, foreign over the phone line, even though he stood mere feet from me. “Is everything all right?”

I felt too numb to answer. I thought about all the things I wanted to say to the man I loved, all the things I had rehearsed on the cab ride over. But when presented with the opportunity, I could only stare at my scuffed shoes.

“Claire, are you still there?”

“I’m here,” I said, my voice cracking. I bit my lip.

“You don’t sound well, honey,” he said. “Listen, why don’t I come home? I’m just at a work function. I can cut out early.”

I peered through the window and watched Cassandra pop an hors d’oeuvre into his mouth. She grinned at him, and helped herself to another on a nearby tray.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m eating on the fly tonight.”

“Right,” I said, pulling myself together. “Never mind. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I have to go.”

I watched as Ethan walked back to Cassandra’s side. She spoke, her face animated, and he laughed, before they meandered deeper into the crowd.

“Excuse me,” the woman with the clipboard said in a voice that was both syrupy sweet and exceedingly annoyed. “We really have to keep this entrance free to invited guests.”

“Yes,” I said, with no attempt to try to mask the defeat in my voice. “I was just leaving.”