hadn’t had my coffee yet, and my patience level was at a negative two.
“Hello?”
“Emily, hi.”
“Hi,” I said, instantly warming when I heard his voice. It had the effect of a double espresso.
“You know,” he said, “I still can’t get over the fact that you’re back on the island. Do you remember the time we found that old rope swing down by Mr. Adler’s beach?”
“Yeah,” I said, smiling, suddenly recalling the color of his swim trunks: green, with blue trim.
“And you were afraid to try it,” he said, “but I promised you I’d be waiting in the water to catch you.”
“Yes, but you failed to mention the belly flop that would come with the deal.”
We both laughed, and I realized that nothing, and everything, had changed.
“Hey, what are you doing tonight?” he asked, a little more self-consciously than the Greg Attwood I had known in the summer of 1988. He had either lost some confidence or gained some humility. I wasn’t sure which.
“Well, nothing,” I said.
“I was just thinking, maybe, if you wanted to, we could have dinner at the Robin’s Nest. A friend of mine opened the restaurant last year, and, I mean, it’s nothing compared to New York standards, but we islanders think it’s pretty great. It has a terrific wine list.”
“That sounds wonderful,” I said, grinning. I could sense Bee’s eyes on me.
“Good,” he said. “Would seven be OK? I can pick you up.”
“Yes,” I said. “I’ll be here.”
“Great.”
“Bye, Greg.”
I hung up the phone and turned to Bee, who had been listening to our entire exchange from the kitchen table.
“Well?” she said.
“‘Well,’ what?” I replied.
Bee gave me a look.
“We’re going out. Tonight.”
“Good girl.”
“I don’t know,” I said, grimacing a little. “It feels, well, weird .”
“Don’t be silly,” Bee said, folding her newspaper in half. “What else would you be doing tonight?”
“Point taken,” I replied, sinking my hand into a jar on the coffee table that held a massive collection of miniature seashells. “It’s just that, well, first Greg, then Jack—I’m so rusty at all of this.”
When I uttered Jack’s name, Bee looked out the window to the shore the way she does when something is too cumbersome to talk about. She would get this way when anyone brought up her late husband, Bill, or when someone asked her about her art.
“Well,” I finally said, breaking the silence, “if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine. But if you disapprove of Jack, will you at least tell me why?”
She shook her head and ran her fingers through her gray hair. I loved that she had a bob haircut and didn’t succumb to the short, coifed dos of every other woman I knew over the age of seventy. Everything about my aunt provoked a reaction, even her name. I asked her once, as a girl, why she was named Bee, and she told me it was because she was like a honeybee: sweet, but with a terrible sting.
She sighed. “I’m sorry, honey,” she said in a distant voice. “It’s not that I disapprove. I just want you to be careful with your heart. I was once hurt, deeply, and after all you’ve been through, I’d hate to see you endure any more pain.”
Bee’s cautions resonated. I’d come to Bainbridge Island to escape the heartache that seemed so thick and ever present in New York City, not to take the kind of risks that could put me in vulnerable places. Yet, part of my journey, as Annabelle had urged me, was to take life as it came—not to question or to edit myself, the way I did every time I sat down at my computer and typed out a mediocre sentence. This March, my life was a free write.
“Just promise me you’ll be careful,” Bee said softly.
“I will,” I said, hoping I could hold up my end of the bargain.
Greg was twenty minutes late picking me up. I thought of those summers so long ago, when he didn’t show up at the rope swing or the movie theater or the beach
“Hello?”
“Emily, hi.”
“Hi,” I said, instantly warming when I heard his voice. It had the effect of a double espresso.
“You know,” he said, “I still can’t get over the fact that you’re back on the island. Do you remember the time we found that old rope swing down by Mr. Adler’s beach?”
“Yeah,” I said, smiling, suddenly recalling the color of his swim trunks: green, with blue trim.
“And you were afraid to try it,” he said, “but I promised you I’d be waiting in the water to catch you.”
“Yes, but you failed to mention the belly flop that would come with the deal.”
We both laughed, and I realized that nothing, and everything, had changed.
“Hey, what are you doing tonight?” he asked, a little more self-consciously than the Greg Attwood I had known in the summer of 1988. He had either lost some confidence or gained some humility. I wasn’t sure which.
“Well, nothing,” I said.
“I was just thinking, maybe, if you wanted to, we could have dinner at the Robin’s Nest. A friend of mine opened the restaurant last year, and, I mean, it’s nothing compared to New York standards, but we islanders think it’s pretty great. It has a terrific wine list.”
“That sounds wonderful,” I said, grinning. I could sense Bee’s eyes on me.
“Good,” he said. “Would seven be OK? I can pick you up.”
“Yes,” I said. “I’ll be here.”
“Great.”
“Bye, Greg.”
I hung up the phone and turned to Bee, who had been listening to our entire exchange from the kitchen table.
“Well?” she said.
“‘Well,’ what?” I replied.
Bee gave me a look.
“We’re going out. Tonight.”
“Good girl.”
“I don’t know,” I said, grimacing a little. “It feels, well, weird .”
“Don’t be silly,” Bee said, folding her newspaper in half. “What else would you be doing tonight?”
“Point taken,” I replied, sinking my hand into a jar on the coffee table that held a massive collection of miniature seashells. “It’s just that, well, first Greg, then Jack—I’m so rusty at all of this.”
When I uttered Jack’s name, Bee looked out the window to the shore the way she does when something is too cumbersome to talk about. She would get this way when anyone brought up her late husband, Bill, or when someone asked her about her art.
“Well,” I finally said, breaking the silence, “if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine. But if you disapprove of Jack, will you at least tell me why?”
She shook her head and ran her fingers through her gray hair. I loved that she had a bob haircut and didn’t succumb to the short, coifed dos of every other woman I knew over the age of seventy. Everything about my aunt provoked a reaction, even her name. I asked her once, as a girl, why she was named Bee, and she told me it was because she was like a honeybee: sweet, but with a terrible sting.
She sighed. “I’m sorry, honey,” she said in a distant voice. “It’s not that I disapprove. I just want you to be careful with your heart. I was once hurt, deeply, and after all you’ve been through, I’d hate to see you endure any more pain.”
Bee’s cautions resonated. I’d come to Bainbridge Island to escape the heartache that seemed so thick and ever present in New York City, not to take the kind of risks that could put me in vulnerable places. Yet, part of my journey, as Annabelle had urged me, was to take life as it came—not to question or to edit myself, the way I did every time I sat down at my computer and typed out a mediocre sentence. This March, my life was a free write.
“Just promise me you’ll be careful,” Bee said softly.
“I will,” I said, hoping I could hold up my end of the bargain.
Greg was twenty minutes late picking me up. I thought of those summers so long ago, when he didn’t show up at the rope swing or the movie theater or the beach
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