“I’d love to,” she says.
Sunday arrives, sunny and bright. Logan passes the morning buying presents for the boys—a hop-a-long for Noa; for his brother, Cam, the more cerebral of the duo, a construction set—takes a swim to settle his nerves and waits for the hour to come. At three o’clock he retrieves his car from the garage—undriven for many weeks, it is, to his dismay, rather dusty—and drives to the address Nessa has provided. He finds himself in front of a large, modern apartment complex three blocks from the harbor; Nessa is waiting by the entrance. She is dressed in white slacks, a peach-colored top, and low-heeled, open-toed sandals. Her hair is loose and freshly washed. She is holding a large package wrapped in silver paper. Logan disembarks to open her door.
“That’s very thoughtful of you,” he says of the parcel, “but you didn’t need to bring a present.”
“It’s a tether ball,” she says, pleased. She places the box on the backseat with the others. “You don’t think they’re too young? My nephews plays with theirs for hours.”
This is the first mention of her family, which is, Logan learns, quite large. Raised in a northern suburb, where her parents still live—her father is a postmaster—she is the fourth of six children. Three of them, her older sisters and a younger brother, are married with families of their own. So, Logan thinks, she is alone but not unacquainted with the life he has led, that customary life of children and duty and never enough time. Logan has already explained that the party will be held at his ex-wife’s house, a fact on which Nessa has made no comment. He wonders if this is a reportorial habit, withholding her thoughts so that others will reveal more of themselves, then chastises himself for being suspicious; maybe it makes no difference to someone of her generation, raised in a more ethically malleable world of constantly changing partners.
The drive to Olla’s takes thirty minutes. Their talk comes easily. Little mention is made of the conference. He questions her about her work, if she enjoys it, which she says she does. She likes the travel, meeting new people, learning about the world and trying to shape it into stories. “I was always like that, even as a kid,” she explains. “I’d sit in my room and write for hours. Silly stuff mostly, elves and castles and dragons, but as I got older, I got more interested in real things.”
“Do you still write fiction?”
“Oh, once in a while, just for fun. Every reporter I know has a half-written novel in their desk somewhere, usually pretty awful. It’s like a disease we all have, this wish to get below the surface somehow, to find some kind of larger pattern.”
“Do you think that’s possible?”
She considers the question, looking out the windshield “I think there is one. Life means something. It’s not just going to work and making dinner and taking your car to the repair shop. Wouldn’t you agree?”
They are passing through an outer neighborhood: tidy houses set far back from the road, mailboxes standing at attention at the curb, dogs barking from the yards as they drive by.
“I think most people would,” Logan says. “At least, we hope so. It can be very hard to see, though.”
She seems pleased with his answer. “So you have your way, and I have mine. Some people go to church. I write stories. You study history. They’re not really so very different.” She glances over at him, then returns her gaze to the passing world. “I have a friend who’s a novelist. He’s rather famous—maybe you’ve heard of him. The man’s a total mess, drinks a liter a day, barely bothers to change his clothes, the whole cliché of the tortured artist. I asked him once, Why do you do it if it makes you feel so awful? Because seriously, the man’s not going to make it to forty the way he lives. His books are thoroughly depressing, too.”
“What did he say?”
“ ‘Because I can’t stand not knowing.’ ”