Page 17 of The Words We Lost

I blink the haze of the past away as Joel works to secure the area around the food table and delegate tasks to each of his employees, including the shaken teen boy whose cheeks are now a flaming shade of crimson. It’s not until Joel pats his shoulder that I turn away to focus once again on the reason I’m here.

By the time I step onto the cracked cement stairs that lead to the hotel’s basement kitchens and wine cellars, I’m rolling my shoulders to ease the tension in my lower back and wishing I’d worn more practical shoes. Heels are always better on display in a storefront window than on actual human feet. But all thoughts of practical fashion vanish the instant I catch a glimpse of Wendy Campbell’s silk floral kimono. A spark of grief catches fire under my ribcage.

She’s bent over a floral arrangement of yellow dahlias when I slip under the arched doorway. I’m no closer than twenty feet when she straightens and twists in my direction. And then in no time at all, those twenty feet morph into an embrace that rocks me off-center.

There are no thoughts in my head as I sink my face into Wendy’s blanket of graying curls and feel the way her hold on me seems to soften all my hard edges in seconds. I breathe in her familiar honeysuckle and lavender soap scent, wishing I could keep it with me always. Wishing I could keep so many things about her with me always.

We don’t speak, only it’s not because there aren’t words to be spoken. It’s because the words Wendy cares about most are not the ones filtered by the tongue, but those that pulse through the heart. When her arms loosen, I pull back just enough to see her sorrow-rimmed eyes and the dark half-moon circles imprinted underneath them. But those aren’t the only differences to be found in this woman who loved me like a daughter even when I was little more than a stranger.

Wendy’s once radiant mid-fifties glow has dimmed considerably since I saw her last. Her skin isn’t plump or dewy but rather etched in the familiar markings of stress and loss. My focus snags on the way her kimono slips off her too-sharp shoulders, exposing collarbones that look as if they might snap in two if she exhales too quickly. But when her eyes flood with tears for what is obviously not the first time today, I shove my own pain deep into a pocket I vow to keep closed out of respect for her.

The hierarchy of grief will always belong to a childless mother.

“I knew you’d come,” she whispers as she touches my cheek with cool fingertips. “And you wore her favorite color.”

“Of course,” I say, my voice a choked betrayal of itself, because the only thing I want to express isI’m so sorry I didn’t come sooner. She deserves so much more than a simple apology from me, and yet I know I’d fail at trying to explain the more complicated reasons for my absence. Postponing grief may not be the healthy approach my therapist encourages in our sessions, but sometimes it feels like the only approach a person can handle. Being back here on what should have been Cece’s twenty-seventh birthday has made it real.

Being back here makes itallreal.

Wendy doesn’t bother to wipe the tear streaks from her cheeks asshe gestures to the array of flowers strewn along the butcher block table where she’s arranged thousands of floral centerpieces over the years as the hotel’s hospitality manager. “As you can see, I’m running a bit behind schedule tonight. I just wanted to make sure Cece’s favorites were included in these arrangements.”

“I’m happy to help.” Words I should have spoken months and months ago. “Where can I start?”

As if I were eighteen again, I reach for a pair of floral scissors as Wendy points to the three bouquets of greenery at the end of the butcher block. “Those still need to be trimmed.”

“On it,” I say, securing the wholesale bouquets to prep for the two oversized vases, all too aware of the fact that I’ve never known Wendy to purchase flowers for any gathering. “Were these flowers donated for the dinner tonight?” It’s the only possible conclusion I can come up with for such an extreme departure from her usual routine.

She looks at me from across the butcher block and shakes her head in a way that communicates so much more than her words. “We’ve been ordering them from a floral supply warehouse in Seattle for a while now.”

I nod, though my lungs seize at her simple explanation. What’s become of her luscious gardens? Of the greenhouses Joel and his father assembled for her on their property the summer we turned seventeen? Of the rows of flowers and flora and herbs she meticulously labeled and tended to year-round for every special occasion at the Campbell Hotel?

“And your gardens? How are they?”

“I haven’t done much gardening lately,” she says with a tentative smile, as if trying to reassure me. But Wendy without an active garden is like Cece without writing, and me without reading—impossible. “I’ve actually been working on a—”

“Wendy? Are you ready for me to carry those arrangements up to the deck? Our guests are arriving.”

I recognize the deep timbre of his voice long before I see the faceof Joel’s father round the corner into the basement. Just three steps in, Stephen Campbell stops as he registers me.

“Ingrid, hello. Goodness, it’s great to see you here again. You look beautiful tonight.”

Though we haven’t had any relationship to speak of in more than five years, Stephen’s fatherly presence doesn’t fail to take me back a decade. He’d given me my first real job. Truthfully, he’d given me so much more than that.

“Thank you, Mr. Campbell, and thank you for the platters and blankets you and Patti sent to the cottage for my stay. That was thoughtful.”

“You’ll always be a welcome guest.” His stride is as evenly paced as his personality. “I hope it goes without saying, but Patti and I hope your visit here is a good one. If there’s anything you need, please don’t hesitate to ask.” He glances at Wendy, and I can’t help but note the concern that touches his brow. “I see Wendy’s already put you to work.”

“Ingrid’s always paid such close attention to detail.” Wendy’s smile is tender as she slides the fragile vase toward him. “It’s part of what makes her such a brilliant editor.”

Stephen winks at me as if I’m still part of the exclusive network of faithful employees who make this family business tick. “Is this one ready to go, sis?”

Wendy confirms with a nod. “And the second should be ready in a few minutes. Ingrid’s just trimming the last of the greenery for me.”

He lifts the vase with ease and carries it out of the cold room and up the concrete steps.

I snip the stems at an angle and open my mouth to speak to Wendy in these last private moments, only to close it again. Because the questions knocking around in my head are not suitable for a birthday dinner, even if they are the questions that keep me awake at night.

“How long will you be here, Ingrid? I’d love to spend some time with you while you’re in town.”

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