hers.
“Let’s go have some fun, shall we, girls?” Elliot said. He offered us each an arm, and we obliged. Frances perked up immediately.
Will and Rose joined us on a blanket that Elliot had spread out on the beach. We drank beer and ate clams out of tin bowls and reveled in the beauty of the crisp, star-filled night.
Elliot reached into his dark green knapsack and pulled out his camera, fiddling with the flash for a second before gesturing at me to look up. “I don’t want to ever forget the way you look tonight,” he said, making one, then two, then three snaps with his finger. Elliot was never more than a few feet away from his camera. He could capture a scene in black and white with such poignancy that it almost made you weak.
Looking back, I wish I had prevented Elliot from leaving that night. I wish I could have made time stand still. But shortly before ten p.m., he turned to me and said, “I have to go to Seattle tonight. There’s some business I have to attend to. Can I see you tomorrow night?”
I didn’t want him to go, but I nodded and kissed him. “I love you,” I said, lingering in the moment a few seconds longer before he stood up, brushed the sand off his legs, and began walking to the ferry dock, whistling, as he always did.
The next morning, Frances, Rose, and I caught an early ferry to Seattle to do some shopping. Rose wanted to go to Frederick & Nelson to get a dress she’d seen in the latest issue of “Vogue.” Frances needed new shoes. I was just happy to get off the island. I liked being in the city. I must have told Elliot a hundred times how I dreamed of a big apartment downtown with windows overlooking the sound. I’d paint the walls mauve, and the drapes would be cream with little sashes holding them back from the windows, just like in the magazines.
And then, walking out onto the sidewalk on Marion Street in front of the Landon Park Hotel—a big brick building with two enormous columns in front—was Elliot. He was with someone, but it wasn’t until the traffic cleared a few seconds later that I could see whom. She was blond and tall, nearly as tall as Elliot. I watched as he wrapped his arms around her in an embrace that lasted an eternity. I was close enough to hear their conversation—well, just bits and pieces of it, but that’s all I needed to hear.
“Here’s the key to the apartment,” the woman said, handing him something, which he immediately put in his pocket.
He winked at her, which sent a chill through my body. I knew that wink. “Will I see you tonight?” he asked.
The noise of a passing truck muffled her response. Then he helped her into a cab and waved as it drove away.
“Will I see you tonight?” My mind suddenly turned to a novel I’d read years prior. Never before had a heroine in a book spoken to me in the way Jane had in “Years of Grace.”
My eyes widened. Years of Grace ! I shook my head in wonderment before turning back to the page.
The fact that Jane, married to Stephen, had pined for another man, going so far as to let herself feel the passions of love, a certain betrayal of her marriage vows, prompted my mother to call the book “rubbish.” I told her it had won the Pulitzer Prize and that my high school English literature teacher had recommended it to me, but it was no use. Novels like these, she said, were filled with fanciful, dangerous ideas for a young woman, so I was forced to keep it hidden under my mattress.
As I stood there on the sidewalk that day, it all came rushing back: Jane’s story, now so painfully intertwined with mine. There was tenderness in Elliot’s voice when he spoke to this woman. I thought of the ties that bind us together, the vows we make, and break. If Jane could give her hand to Stephen and still love another, Elliot could give his word to me and still pine for someone else. It was possible. It seemed poetic in the story—Jane’s love for Andre, and for Jimmy, a midlife love—but now, seeing it played out
“Let’s go have some fun, shall we, girls?” Elliot said. He offered us each an arm, and we obliged. Frances perked up immediately.
Will and Rose joined us on a blanket that Elliot had spread out on the beach. We drank beer and ate clams out of tin bowls and reveled in the beauty of the crisp, star-filled night.
Elliot reached into his dark green knapsack and pulled out his camera, fiddling with the flash for a second before gesturing at me to look up. “I don’t want to ever forget the way you look tonight,” he said, making one, then two, then three snaps with his finger. Elliot was never more than a few feet away from his camera. He could capture a scene in black and white with such poignancy that it almost made you weak.
Looking back, I wish I had prevented Elliot from leaving that night. I wish I could have made time stand still. But shortly before ten p.m., he turned to me and said, “I have to go to Seattle tonight. There’s some business I have to attend to. Can I see you tomorrow night?”
I didn’t want him to go, but I nodded and kissed him. “I love you,” I said, lingering in the moment a few seconds longer before he stood up, brushed the sand off his legs, and began walking to the ferry dock, whistling, as he always did.
The next morning, Frances, Rose, and I caught an early ferry to Seattle to do some shopping. Rose wanted to go to Frederick & Nelson to get a dress she’d seen in the latest issue of “Vogue.” Frances needed new shoes. I was just happy to get off the island. I liked being in the city. I must have told Elliot a hundred times how I dreamed of a big apartment downtown with windows overlooking the sound. I’d paint the walls mauve, and the drapes would be cream with little sashes holding them back from the windows, just like in the magazines.
And then, walking out onto the sidewalk on Marion Street in front of the Landon Park Hotel—a big brick building with two enormous columns in front—was Elliot. He was with someone, but it wasn’t until the traffic cleared a few seconds later that I could see whom. She was blond and tall, nearly as tall as Elliot. I watched as he wrapped his arms around her in an embrace that lasted an eternity. I was close enough to hear their conversation—well, just bits and pieces of it, but that’s all I needed to hear.
“Here’s the key to the apartment,” the woman said, handing him something, which he immediately put in his pocket.
He winked at her, which sent a chill through my body. I knew that wink. “Will I see you tonight?” he asked.
The noise of a passing truck muffled her response. Then he helped her into a cab and waved as it drove away.
“Will I see you tonight?” My mind suddenly turned to a novel I’d read years prior. Never before had a heroine in a book spoken to me in the way Jane had in “Years of Grace.”
My eyes widened. Years of Grace ! I shook my head in wonderment before turning back to the page.
The fact that Jane, married to Stephen, had pined for another man, going so far as to let herself feel the passions of love, a certain betrayal of her marriage vows, prompted my mother to call the book “rubbish.” I told her it had won the Pulitzer Prize and that my high school English literature teacher had recommended it to me, but it was no use. Novels like these, she said, were filled with fanciful, dangerous ideas for a young woman, so I was forced to keep it hidden under my mattress.
As I stood there on the sidewalk that day, it all came rushing back: Jane’s story, now so painfully intertwined with mine. There was tenderness in Elliot’s voice when he spoke to this woman. I thought of the ties that bind us together, the vows we make, and break. If Jane could give her hand to Stephen and still love another, Elliot could give his word to me and still pine for someone else. It was possible. It seemed poetic in the story—Jane’s love for Andre, and for Jimmy, a midlife love—but now, seeing it played out
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