Chapter 10
Easter
“You ready?” Rob picks up my case.
I glance around the floral-wallpapered room with its brass Victorian bed, antique wardrobe and old-fashioned dressing table. “This has been lovely. I’d love to come back for longer.”
In the sloped ceiling, a dormer window offers a view of the historic Washington State town of La Conner and the river by which it stands.
The heritage house we’ve been staying in is perched on a bluff above the town, currently packed with tourists here for the Easter weekend break.
There’s also the draw of the tulip festival.
I close the window, hesitating for a moment to take in the sounds of the street.
“It’s like summer out there.” I turn back, smile at Rob. “This room is charming. Thank you for letting me stay in here, when it’s always been your room.”
On Thursday, we flew to Seattle to stay with Andrew and Kim at their huge, detached house in the Queen Anne neighborhood, and then Rob and I drove on to La Conner for the night to his family’s weekend house here.
We toured the lovely tulip farms. But now it’s time to go to the Blue Harbor Inn for the weekend, my Christmas gift to my husband. I can’t wait.
We drive to the ferry dock at Anacortes, where we drive right onto the ferry.
The blustery ride to Orcas Island weaves between several other pretty islands.
Landing at Orcas, we drive around the stunning West Sound inlet, past the small town of Deer Harbor and out to the inn on the island’s western coast. Once checked in, we have to drive a little farther to our off-site accommodations, about a half-mile along the waterfront.
“I upgraded us,” Rob explains. “The rooms at the inn look great, but I figured we could use more space. We’ve got a one-bed-plus-loft cabin on the beach.”
“Good thinking, Batman,” I reply, with mixed feelings over expectations of the sleeping arrangements.
The large, rustic-chic cabin is glorious with its cathedral ceiling and huge ocean view windows.
A perfect, peaceful retreat. We explore the comfortable living-dining area and kitchen, and I climb a spiral iron staircase to find a mezzanine loft bedroom with sloped ceilings.
Below it, at the back of the cabin, is a bathroom and the primary bedroom.
Rob’s watching me as I descend the tightly curved stairs.
“You can have the big bedroom.” He takes my small case into the room.
“It’s your turn. Plus neither of us wants you negotiating that loft staircase to visit the bathroom four times in the night.
And we both know with a fancy dinner like tonight’s, and the inevitable quantities of wine, that’s going to happen. ”
“Fair point. What time’s our reservation?”
“In an hour.” He leaves me to unpack. “It’s a set menu and everyone eats at 6.30. So meet you in the living room at ten past.”
I take a shower and pick out a slate-blue Helmut Lang blouse and indigo jeans, deciding my gray-blue wedges work with the outfit.
Whether they’ll work for a stony walk along the beachfront is another matter, but it’s either these or the sneakers that are way too dirty from yesterday’s visit to the tulip fields.
Rob looks up idly when I finally emerge into the living room. “Nice.”
He’s very handsome in a black linen shirt and blue jeans, his thick black hair slightly damp from the shower. “All set?” I nod.
We walk the easy, paved road to the inn and settle into an ocean-view table in the busy restaurant for a dinner of hyper-locally sourced food, fished off the island’s coast or grown on the inn’s grounds.
As Rob pours the wine, appetizers of pickled oysters and salt cod donuts arrive, which we devour quickly.
“To great food, great wine, great company.” He raises his glass, looking directly into my eyes. “And thanks for this weekend.”
“I didn’t do much, but you’re welcome. I’m glad we’re here.” I take a generous sip of the very mellow wine and gaze out at the sun lowering over the ocean. This place is so calming. Not like New York. Here, we’re both so relaxed.
We enjoy the view of the ferries and far-off islands for a while, Rob pointing out what each island is called.
He explains that we visited Orcas Island and the nearby Lummi reservation two years previously, and that I met his maternal grandmother, before she died last year.
From his expression, she obviously meant a lot to him.
We eat from beautifully dressed plates of decadent sea urchin with shaved truffle, and we savor the rich delicacy. It’s followed by an entrée of fresh halibut and sea asparagus.
“I was very fond of Nana. She was an awesome woman. So sparky, and funny.”
I smile. “She sounds wonderful. Did I get on well with her?”
“Of course. But . . .”
“But what?”
Rob chases a piece of halibut around his plate with his fork.
“It was only about six months after we were married, after David’s death.
Things had been tough for us. You’d kinda thrown yourself into work and social events, going to parties with Mike and Hans, that kind of thing.
I think it was a way for you to get out of your head, to stop thinking about David all the time. ”
He spears the fish but doesn’t move to eat it. “You once said to me, in one of our rare fights, that if we hadn’t gotten married, or at least gotten married in Hawaii, there would’ve been no helicopter crash. That David would still be alive. You were carrying around a huge amount of guilt.
“We still really loved each other, but it was hard. I often wondered if you blamed me. Nana picked up that something was not quite right. She asked me if I was happy with you.”
I nod. “That makes sense. But that was two years ago. So, after that — before my accident — how were things between you? Sorry, us. You get what I mean.”
“Things got better. You weren’t so sad. But it was never quite the same as before the wedding, when we were so happy. We’d lost our previous . . . joyfulness.”
Rob reaches across the table and puts his hand on mine.
“But since your accident, at least since you’ve been coming to terms with it, it’s been better for me.
Like a reset button has been pushed. You don’t have any of the guilt associated with our wedding and David’s death.
Hell, as far as you’re concerned, we’re not even married and David is still alive.
Which is a bucketload of bizarre in itself, we both know that.
“But what it’s effectively done is give me back the original you, the woman I fell in love with.
No guilt, no working ten hours a day then coming back half-wasted after some premiere and not wanting to talk.
I mean, you also have your issues, to put it mildly, but you’re still so .
. . you. When we’re having dinner, it’s so much more like I’d always envisioned having dinner with my wife. I don’t know if you know what I mean.”
He pulls his hand away from mine as the server comes to clear our plates. We’re silent, instead turning to witness the sun setting over the islands, the last light casting a warm glow on the wisps of cloud above.
The server promises us dessert and departs. I look at Rob and shake my head.
“Wow. I had no idea. You seemed — I mean, we seemed like a perfect couple. Marred by tragedy, but still loving and happy.”
“And we were — we are,” he interjects. “There was nothing really damaged. Only challenged.”
“I get it. What happened in Hawaii . . . it’s brutal. It would take its toll on any relationship. I’m glad to have restored things to a happier place, even if it is because I have no memory of those events.”
“Me too.” Rob smiles, leaning forward, pouring the last inch of wine into my glass. “It is weird that, even though my wife doesn’t remember me and is sleeping in the guest room, I’ve been happier these past few months than before. It’s crazy.”
I smile back at him, unable to stop myself feeling joy at bringing this wonderful man some happiness. Both our spirits seem lifted as we finish the wine and eat the delicious local berry sorbet with mint the server brings, before leaving the restaurant.
“Walk back along the beach?” Rob suggests. The sun has gone, but the sky is still a deep orange, the islands silhouetted in the distance.
I peer down at my shoes. “We’ll see how I fare in these wedges. Firm sand I can probably handle, major rocks not so much. I may need assistance.”
He laughs and helps me step down onto the beach. We walk in silence for a while, him sturdily, me a little unsteadily. “Is that the wine or the shoes?” His face is obscured in the twilight, but I can hear the smile in his voice.
“Both. Here, help me out on this bit.” A cluster of rocks blocks our path.
He steps up gracefully onto a flat rock and holds out his hand. I take it and he pulls me up beside him, guiding me across the outcrop and down the other side, making me feel secure.
“I’m better holding on to you.” I hold on to his hand, even when we’re on firmer ground. He says nothing, only adjusting his grip when I wobble, waiting when I slow at the rockier sections.
It’s almost dark by the time we get back to the cabin. Rob lets go of my hand to unlock the door. It leaves me feeling bereft, wanting more. I kick off my wedges and flop down on the couch as Rob goes into the kitchen.
“I could handle another glass of wine. You?” he calls.
“Sure.” I’m not at all sure I should drink more, but I want to prolong the evening. It’s been so wonderful.
Rob returns with an open bottle and two stemless glasses. He puts them down, turns on some Ray LaMontagne on the iPhone dock, and sits next to me. He pours the wine and raises his glass. “Another toast,” he announces. “To amazing food and a beautiful evening. Thank you for sharing it with me.”
We chink glasses, suddenly shy. The air is thick with tension.