He scratches the stubble on his chin. “I’ll be more peaceful inside by the woodstove. Come on, you’re shivering. You should’ve put on a coat.”
“My sweater is good enough.” But he’s right. My teeth chatter as we head back along the beach, picking our way across kelp and shells. I imagine how we must have carried our scuba gear across a similar beach at Deception Pass, the day of the accident. We thought the amazing marine life in the pass would outweigh the risk of diving in such rough waters. He has shown me pictures of the area where we dove, several miles south of Mystic Island. But I don’t remember the Deception Pass Bridge, its span of nearly 1,500 feet rising 180 feet above the narrow strait that separates Whidbey Island from Fidalgo Island. Apparently, we consulted the tide tables, which we thought were in Pacific Standard Time. But they were in Pacific Daylight Time. We were diving earlier than we thought, through strong currents instead of in calm waters at slack current.
I turn to look up at Jacob. “How did we survive?”
“What?” He looks at me with confusion in his eyes.
“We made it to shore east of the bridge. But how?”
“We swam. I told you already.” He can’t hide the touch of irritation in his voice.
“I don’t remember every detail of what you tell me—”
“I know. It’s just . . .”
“I’m sorry you have to repeat yourself.”
“It’s okay. I don’t mind.”
But I know he does. He tries so hard to be patient. “I want to go back to the pass,” I say. “I want to see where we dove. Maybe I’ll start remembering on my own.”
He interlaces his fingers with mine. “We’ll go back, okay? But not yet. You need some time.”
“Fair enough.” I know he’s the one who needs time. He remembers everything, and now he suffers from post-traumatic stress, while my brain simply blacked out.
I follow him up the steps toward our sprawling cedar bungalow with its plethora of windows and a small garden cottage. Vines of ivy climb the western wall of the main dwelling. Rosebushes cling to the south-facing side. Jacob’s mother planted the first roses nearly forty years ago, when his father built the house as a refuge from city life. It’s the kind of house that might harbor a fugitive or someone in witness protection—or a weary soul seeking a retreat, a sanctuary surrounded by forest and the sea.
Despite its sprawl, the one-story structure feels unobtrusive, as if it has grown naturally from the landscape. Many times in recent days, I’ve stood in the garden or on the beach, staring at the house from different perspectives, trying to remember the last time we were here. I imagine Jacob chasing me up the stone steps, both of us laughing. I know we loved this place—he has shown me the photographs. How lucky I am that his parents left him the place. He hired contractors to remodel the rooms, add the solar panels, and build the garden cottage, where he types away on the Great American Novel. He left his lucrative software business in Seattle to take care of me. He stocked the pantry and rigged a spotty satellite Internet connection in my study, but the island has no cell phone service. It feels like we’re light-years away from civilization, instead of a hundred miles from Seattle, across the Strait of Juan de Fuca.
If I stand on the deck, I hear the rush of wind, the rhythm of the surf, the muted chirping of birds in the underbrush. There are no cars on this dead-end road, no television, no neighbors. Since we’ve been here, I have not even heard the drone of a distant airplane. At night, far from the city lights, the stars crowd into a spectacular display in the inky dome of sky. The sheer wildness of this island leaves me breathless, a deep and unspoken longing rising inside me—for what, I’m not sure.
When Jacob and I reach the house, a blue pickup truck comes into view in the driveway. A woman I knew here before, Nancy Phelps, traipses toward me through the long grass. Last week, she brought over autumn squash and pumpkins from her garden. She’s in jeans, pullover, and boots, her golden hair flying.
This time, a man has come with her, probably her husband. I seem to remember—she told me he runs a salvage diving company. He must’ve returned from his latest expedition. He’s crouching to examine the broken solar panel in the driveway.
“Morning!” Nancy says, striding up to us and pulling me into an apple-scented hug. Her features etch delicate impressions into her face. Small nose, wide-set hazel eyes, and a scattering of freckles.
I look down at my damp pajamas, then I smile at her. “If I’d known you were coming, I would’ve worn my fluffy slippers.”
“You look gorgeous,” she says.
“You, too. But you’re lying. I look like I just rolled out of bed.”
“It was a gorgeous roll out of bed.”
“Come in for coffee?” I say.
“Too much to do, but thanks. We were headed up this way to drop off some eggs. Thought Van might take a look at repairing the solar panel.”