22
A stiff mattress coil creaks beneath me as I shift, pulling the blanket up higher on my neck when a cool draft of air hits
my skin. I rub my eyes, the blur of sleep slowly fading as the room comes into focus. I’m in the guesthouse . There’s no strange man beside me. I look down at my ringless finger and feel a sensation of giddiness that spreads through
my body like a fever. It worked! It really worked! Leaping out of bed, I glance at myself in the bathroom mirror, never happier seeing the sight of my boring, stick-straight
lob.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. It’s Frankie. Frankie!
“Hiiiiiiiiiii!” I cry into the phone, practically kissing the screen.
“I take it we’re sufficiently caffeinated this morning.” Her sarcasm has never sounded sweeter. “So, how’re you feeling?”
“Fabulous! Frankie, I’m home! I’m finally home!”
“Uh, yeah, I know. Lena? Are you... okay?”
“Yes! In fact, I’ve never been better!”
“Well, good, because you were a hysterical mess yesterday.”
“I love you so much, Frankie! And I love that you and Christian love each other!”
“Dude,” she replies. “What’s with all the love?”
I chuckle. “I’ll explain later. I’ve got to find Rosie!”
I race across the lawn, grinning from ear to ear. My childhood home has never looked more beautiful, even under this gray sky with rain splattering my face. I open my mouth to catch a drop on my tongue, overcome with relief to be home—to really be home. Back to my life.
“Rosie?” I call from the entryway, kicking off my boots.
In the kitchen, she looks up from the stove where she’s flipping a pancake. “Oh, hi, honey,” she says, smiling. “You slept
past nine. I’m glad. You needed the rest.”
I wrap my arms around her, squeezing her so tightly she nearly drops the spatula.
“Kevin’s called a few times,” she says, her voice tentative as she searches my face.
“Kevin?”
“Yeah, I think he’s worried about you.” She pauses, her expression shifting into a smile. “It sounds like he wants to patch
things up.”
I shake my head. “Rosie, I don’t want to patch things up.”
“But yesterday, you were so—”
“Listen,” I continue, taking a deep breath, “can we talk?”
Together, we sink into the pair of chairs by the fireplace. “I don’t even know where to start.”
“How about from the beginning?”
As I had yesterday, I tell Rosie about my experience—the seemingly endless stream of new realities, the different men and
divergent lives, all the highs and lows. She listens intently, as if they’re bonus chapters from Fifty Shades of Grey, and once I’ve finished, she nods, her eyes filled with compassion, understanding. But if she knows the secrets of the guesthouse,
she keeps them to herself.
“So what now?”
“I don’t know,” I say, smiling to myself. “And that’s the best part.”
“This doesn’t sound like the Lena from yesterday.”
I nod. “I thought I had everything all figured out, but I was so wrong. And Kevin, well, he’s so wrong for me. I was just
too stuck in my own head to see it.”
So you’re not going to call him back?”
I shake my head. “Rosie, I hate hiking.”
She laughs.
“I’ve always hated hiking.”
I pause when I notice a familiar painting hanging on the living room wall that hadn’t been there before—the still life of
the ceramic pitcher beside two ripe pears that had previously been shuttered away in my mom’s old bedroom for decades.
“I figured it was time we displayed some of her art,” Rosie says, tracking my gaze, her voice thick with emotion. “No sense
keeping such beauty locked away. She really did have a gift for making the ordinary seem extraordinary, didn’t she?”
I nod. “I thought a lot about her while I was gone. I realized that there’s more of her in me than I ever knew. All these
years, I guess I’ve been afraid to face those similarities.”
“Oh, honey,” Rosie says, shifting in her chair to look into my eyes. “Yes, I see many reflections of your mother in you. That’s
the legacy of family. She was as brilliant as she was flawed. But you are your own soul. Never, even for a second, think that
your path is predestined to follow in anyone else’s footsteps. You get to choose the good, reject the bad.” She smiles. “You’re
already doing that.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
I tuck my knees to my chest, pressing my head back against the chair. “I wonder what she’d be like right now, if she were
here.”
“Me, too,” Rosie says, nodding. “Even in the finality of death, you never stop looking for them. Do you know how many mornings
I’ve walked into the kitchen, certain that I could hear Bill sitting at the breakfast table, crunching away at his Raisin
Bran?”
I smile.
She takes a steadying breath. “Yes, I keep looking for him—your mom, too—because I know if I pay close enough attention, I’ll
find them in the most unexpected places.”
“Even at the breakfast table,” I add, my eyes misty.
Rosie stands and stretches her arms. “How about we take our minds off all this and head over to Pike Place this afternoon? I need to pick up some more honey—and a million other things. Are you in?”
“In,” I reply.
“Good. Let me finish up some projects in the garden first, but let’s plan on leaving shortly after noon.”
While Rosie heads outside to tend to her hydrangeas, I think, not for the first time, how lonely she must be here on her own,
missing Bill. I smile to myself, remembering her septuagenarian dance partner yesterday: Jim, with his bow tie and that pink
rosebud on his lapel. Where did he say he volunteered, again? The Bainbridge Botanical Gardens? Yes. I was a child the last time I visited, though I know it’s not far. I reach for my phone and do a quick search on Google Maps,
surprised to discover that it’s even closer than I expected—just a half mile up the shore. What if he’s there right now? I
reach for my coat, slipping out the back door.
“Hello?” I say to a figure in the distance, hovering over a garden bed.
A woman looks up in the misty air, garden trowel in hand. “I’m sorry, but we’re only open to the public on weekends.”
“Oh right,” I say quickly. “I was just looking for Jim.”
“Jim?” She stares at me, confused, as she shakes dirt from her gloves.
“Yeah, he... volunteers here, doesn’t he? Tall, older guy, balding a little. Likes to dance?”
“Oooooooh,” she finally says, as if I’ve just given her the secret handshake. “You mean the Colonel!”
“Um, the Colonel ?”
“Yeah, the Colonel of the vegetable garden.”
“Right,” I say, struggling to keep a straight face. “Yeah.”
“We all have posts here,” she continues, her tone very official. “I’m the Queen of Herbs. Fred’s the Duke of Delphiniums.
Mary’s the Countess of—”
“Let me guess,” I interject. “Cauliflower?”
“Kale, actually,” she replies, her tone strict and serious. “We have fourteen heirloom varieties.” I think of Barb and Babbs. They’d be in kale heaven.
“Wow,” I say, “but, about Jim, er, the Colonel—do you know where I might find him?”
“Yeah,” she says, pointing down a gravel path. “He’s right around the corner, getting the carrot seeds in the ground.”
“Thanks,” I say, darting ahead, spotting a man holding a shovel beside a pile of fresh, black soil.
“Jim?”
He looks up, a little confused.
“I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “Should I call you Colonel?”
He chuckles. “Jim’s just fine. I take it you’ve met Mary.”
“The Queen of Herbs? Yes.” I grin. “Listen, I’m a neighbor.” I point to the south. “And I’m here to ask for an unusual favor.”
“Can you feel that energy ?” Rosie beams as we step onto the cobblestones of Pike Street. I take a deep breath, breathing in the Market’s unique collage
of scents—seafood, fresh-baked bread, smoky meat grilling in a nearby Persian restaurant.
“There’s nothing on earth like it,” she continues, walking ahead.
I follow her through the crowd as she stops at her favorite stalls, purchasing a bouquet of flowers, loads of vegetables and
fruits, and three jars of honey. If that wasn’t enough, she places an order for another case, some upcoming special edition.
“Do we need anything else before we go?” she asks as we meander, treasures teeming out of her woven basket.
“Yeah,” I say, eying the staircase to the Market’s lower floor. “Maybe a coffee.”
Together, we descend the stairs, freshly roasted coffee beans wafting in the air. Café Vita is just ahead, and standing in
the window... Spencer.
I freeze, squeezing Rosie’s arm as I take in the sight.
“That’s him, isn’t it?” she says. “The old friend you told me about?”
“Spencer, yes.”
Rosie nods. “He’s quite the dreamboat.” She watches my expression shift as a beautiful blond woman approaches and gives him
a long embrace. He holds her face in his hands for an elongated moment, before turning when someone taps him on the shoulder.
The woman stands beside him, flipping her long flaxen hair the way I used to in junior high.
“Lena?” Rosie says, sensing my unease. “Do you want to go in and say hi, or...”
“No,” I say quickly. “Let’s go. Now.”
The doorbell rings at seven sharp; Rosie looks up from her book, annoyed.
“I wasn’t expecting a package.” She frowns. “It’s probably that neighbor boy who comes down here every other week selling
candy bars for his baseball team. In my day, we didn’t bother people after dinner!”
“I’ll get it,” I say, ignoring her grumpy rant as I smile slyly, peering through the side window, where Jim stands outside
the door—in a suit with a fresh rosebud tucked into his lapel. Perfect.
“I hope I’m not late,” he says a little awkwardly, holding a supermarket bouquet of pale pink roses.
“Right on time,” I say, lowering my voice to a whisper. “I probably should have warned you that my aunt knows nothing about
this, and also... she’s really stubborn .”
“Well, I know a thing or two about stubborn women,” he says, adjusting his sleeve. “I was married to one for forty years.
It’s like I’ve always said: ‘Expect the best, prepare for the worst.’” He grins. “I think we’re going to have a nice time.”
“But maybe plan your escape route just in case,” I suggest as we walk into the living room, each of us bracing ourselves—especially
me.
“Who was at the door?” Rosie asks, flipping the page of her novel—the next book in the Fifty Shades series, I see.
“A guest,” I say. “For you.”
She looks confused and a little embarrassed as she tucks her book into her seat cushion—concealing the evidence.
“Rosie,” I begin, “this is Jim. He’s an excellent dancer, and I invited him over to see if you’d like to dance.”
“Hi, there,” Jim says, handing her the bouquet.
Rosie shakes her head. I can’t tell if she’s annoyed or amused—or both. “Dance? Lena, what’s gotten into you?”
“Have you ever been swing dancing?” Jim asks, making an earnest attempt to lighten the mood.
“Well, yes,” Rosie replies, a little cautiously. “But that was before this old hip of mine stopped cooperating.”
“I’ll take that hip and raise you a shoulder,” he says, patting his left rotator cuff. “How about we flex our old muscles
and give it another go?”
Rosie shifts in her seat, clearly flustered. For a moment I regret this whole idea, but then she smiles at Jim, her resolve
weakening, before turning back to me. “Lena, you might have warned me that a handsome gentleman was coming over. I would have
put on some lipstick.”
“You’re perfect the way you are,” Jim interjects, offering Rosie his hand, her cheeks immediately flushing.
“Should I put on a record?” I ask as he pushes the coffee table aside.
“Yes,” Rosie replies immediately, pointing to the old turntable. “Benny Goodman.”
“Ah, I see you have excellent taste in music,” Jim says as I sort through her records. “But what about your dancing skills?”
“I was about to ask the same of yours,” she spars back, her words both playful and razor-sharp as I take the album out of
its sleeve and set the needle in place.
As the music starts, the old vinyl scratchy and filled with patina, Rosie clutches Jim’s shoulders, and I watch from the kitchen as he leads her around the room gently.
“Is that all you’ve got?” she chides before he dips her so low, her hair nearly grazes the floor.
“Better?” he asks, with a wide, confident smile as he lifts her upright again.
“I’d say so,” she exclaims, a little breathlessly.
And just like that, Rosie is smiling again. They laugh hysterically as he spins her this way and that to the soundtrack of
vintage jazz. The clarinet, the trumpet, the beautiful simplicity of two steps forward, one step back. Would they have found
each other again without my intervention? Passed each other on the beach, or crossed paths at the supermarket, perhaps in
the cereal aisle? Maybe. Maybe not. Yes, I orchestrated this moment, but it feels good to see something redemptive emerge
from my harrowing journey—a little green sprout growing out of the darkness and into the light. I may have planted the seed,
but it’s Rosie’s to nurture.