Page 16 of The Words We Lost

7

Ilost track of the afternoon while in the driver’s seat of my rented Prius. The marbled sky had finally cracked open to weep into the sea for the better part of an hour while I pretended to take in the blurry coastline ahead. But at the first wink of sunshine, I was ready for a change of scenery. I was also ready for some much-needed retail therapy. Shopping for an upgraded party dress wouldn’t require me to provide answers I wasn’t prepared to give.

Allie hadn’t steered me wrong by recommending her sister’s boutique. It wasn’t fancy by any means and the dressing room was nothing but a curtain strung across a narrow closet in the back, but the stylish employee in her mid-forties may as well have been Mary Poppins and the narrow shop her magical carpetbag. Dress after dress appeared in my changing room until a perfect match in both the style and color I’d requested could be made. I left the shop with a floor-length, golden chiffon A-line that boasted a halter neckline and a side slit that roamed to my mid-thigh. Quite remarkable for a last-minute purchase in a sleepy beach town.

Using the reflection of my passenger side window, I double-check the bobby pins securing my loose updo in place and then lift my gaze to the four-story Victorian building situated a block past the marina I know as well as my studio apartment in San Francisco.The siren’s call of live music drifts from the hotel’s private deck and bounces off the water like an amplifier to the streets of downtown.

My pace slows in time with the bluesy jazz, and my therapist’s coaching techniquesto deal with hard feelings as they comeconfronts me head on. I stand at the mouth of the busy marina, where skilled sportsmen come from all over the nation to try their luck in the Sound, spending thousands on chartering excursions with seasoned captains. I scan the moored inventory, noting the empty slips of boaters enjoying the pleasant summer evening and then the dry-docked vessels, waiting to be repaired by skilled hands. For a moment, I’m sixteen years old again in search of my father’s red cap and Norwegian beard. I can almost hear him call my name, hollering for me to climb aboard quickly because we have a big day planned with paying customers who don’t much care to wait on a teenage girl. But as quickly as it comes, the memory is gone.

I arrive at the hotel twenty minutes prior to the start of dinner as planned, opting for an early arrival and exit time. I also opt to use the patio entrance off the narrow sidewalk that borders the hotel instead of walking through the lobby, but I’m as surprised by the security detail stationed there as I am by the No Trespassing and Private, Guests Only signs distributed around the Campbell’s property. The security guard verifies my name and then opens the gate for me without further comment.

I pause for a moment in a shaded corner of the grand deck to observe the well-oiled machine that is the Campbell Hotel staff and work up the courage I need to get through this night. My eyes sweep the perimeter of the grounds in search of a familiar face, but the only employees I find buzzing around the expansive waterfront space in tidy black aprons embroidered with updated logos are strangers to me. Some balance trays of appetizers and champagne flutes for nearby food and drink stations, while others are tasked with setting out flatware and buffet plates—two jobs I’ve done hundreds of times. Tall tables meant for mingling have been placed throughout the deck, interspersed with unlit heaters in case the evening turnstoo breezy after the sun goes down. The Campbells’ favorite jazz band continues their sound check on a stage closest to the access point of the stairs that lead to the long floating dock. Much like at the marina, I take inventory of the small gathering of close friends and family who have likely been here most of the day and are now milling about with plates of shrimp kabobs and fresh crab cakes.

My breath stalls as I see Joel’s mom trailing after her husband with a tier of yellow frosted cupcakes. I’ve never been to a Campbell function where Stephen and Patti weren’t working twice as hard as their employees. Tonight, it seems, is no different. There’s no question as to why their hotel has been named the Best Accommodations in the Olympic Peninsula for the past decade. My search continues for the face I most want to find this evening, when a sweet, feminine voice catches my ear.

“I’m always envious of a woman who can pull off such a striking shade of yellow—marigold is a stunning color on you. I knew Rhonda wouldn’t steer you wrong.”

My gaze lands on a beautiful young woman with delicate features and flowing strawberry blond hair that spills down her back in cascading waves. Her dazzling, sleeveless olive romper is cut in such a way it reveals a splattering of sun-kissed freckles on perfectly toned shoulders and arms. And despite the fact that she’s wearing strappy, flat sandals to my four-inch heels, we’re practically eye-to-eye. Yet there’s something about the familiar way she addressed me that gives me a déjà-vu-like sensation.

She switches the near-empty champagne flute from her right hand to her left, and then with soft, pastel pink fingernails, she touches my elbow. “Please tell me she remembered to offer you the twenty percent friends and family discount? If not, I’ll be happy to adjust your receipt tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry,” I finally say, shaking my head. “Do we know each other?”

“Oh gosh.” Her laugh is bright and melodic. When she flattens her palm to her chest, the gesture harkens back to an earlier introductionthat took place yesterday afternoon. In Cece’s living room. “Forgive me, I’m Madison Spencer. I’m—”

“Allie’s sister,” I conclude at the same time she says, “Allison’s big sister.”

“Yes,” she practically sings, and I’m struck by the family resemblance. Madison is a tad shorter than her baby sister and definitely built more like a willowy ballerina than a varsity volleyball star, but they are equally matched in spirit. They are both the kind of homegrown gorgeous that stems from a confidence imparted early on in life. “Allie said you’d settled in at the cottage but were a bit short on party attire. I wish I could have assisted you at the shop myself, but I’ve been here seeing to odds and ends for the family most of the day,” she explains. “Anyway, I’ve heard so much about you, Ingrid, and I’ve been looking forward to meeting you in person this time around. I nearly introduced myself to you last year, but the timing never seemed quite right considering the occasion.”

Immediately, her cheeks bloom the shade of her nails. “I promise that sounded far less insensitive in my head. What I’m failing to communicate is that it’s good to meet you, and that I’m truly sorry for your loss. Cece was one of a kind.” Her expression hints at the bewildered kind of innocence I envy most. “May I salvage this horrible first impression by offering to get you a drink? I think I could use a pre-party refill.” She downs the last of her champagne and lifts her empty flute into the air. “What can I get for you? Champagne? Pinot Grigio? A huckleberry martini?”

“Actually, I don’t drink.”

Madison’s eyes widen as if she’s tallying up another point against herself. “Wow, it seems I’m on quite a roll tonight.”

“You’re fine,” I offer with a smile. “Really.”

“Then can I get you a sparkling water, lemonade, punch?”

“Actually, I’m wondering if you might know where I could find Wendy?”

She offers me a slow nod. “Last I knew, she was downstairs working on flower arrangements.”

“Great, thank you. It was nice to meet you, Madison.”

And it’s only then, when she turns toward the golden horizon and wades into an arriving circle of guests, that I realize Madison doesn’t only resemble her younger sister. She resembles another woman, too. The one I observed from a distance throughout the entire duration of Cece’s funeral.

Madison from Madison’s Wardrobe is the leggy redhead whose identity I’ve speculated about for the last ten months.

I’m still chewing this over when I step away from the shadows and start for the cement staircase at the side of the building. I zigzag my way around several clusters of people, offering polite but minimal small talk so as not to get caught in an unwanted conversational web. Even still, if I had a dollar for every time I heard,“You and Cece were like sisters, you must miss her so much,”I’d have enough to pay off this dress, even without the friends and family discount.

I’ve just broken free from the last circle of sparkling water drinkers when a sensation that causes chill bumps to rise on my arms beckons me to look back. Sure enough, Joel is making his way toward me, determination in his confident gait. But I’m not ready for him or for the questions I read in his gaze.

He’s roughly an arm’s length away when a horrendous crash erupts from the opposite end of the deck. And for a fraction of a second, everything freezes—the music, the conversations, the heartbeat inside my chest as Joel’s eyes lock with mine—and then in a snap, the spell is broken and everyone is rushing to clear the stack of broken plates from the deck floor. With a regretful expression I don’t have time to interpret, Joel tears his gaze from me and locates the young employee who’s apologizing profusely for bumping his service cart into the buffet table. I watch with fascination as Joel’s hero radar is activated.

In a blink, he’s striding toward the disaster, toward the new hire who’s reaching for shards of glass with his bare hands, and my mind can’t help but compare a similar instance on this deck during my first summer as a Campbell employee. Only instead of a stack ofbroken dinner plates, it was an entire porcelain tea service. And instead of a teenage boy, it was a teenage girl who couldn’t afford to lose her first job and was terrified she would be fired for such a careless misstep. And instead of a throng of people jumping in to help, it was Joel alone who’d come to her aid while a dozen finely dressed ladies gawked at the commotion she’d caused when she knelt to pick up each delicate shard of china while blood trickled from her fingertips. The ladies had gawked all the more when Joel knelt beside her with a broom and dustpan.“Hey, don’t even worry about this, okay? It happens to everyone. You’re fine.”His assurance left little room for doubt.“Go in and wash up in the kitchen. I’ve got it from here.”She’d started to protest, but he merely set the dustpan down to pluck the fine china from her trembling hands.“I said, I’ve got you, Indy.”

Four words she was certain she’d never heard quite like that before. Four words she hoped she’d hear again from this boy she hadn’t been able to shake from her thoughts since the day she met him. Four words she hoped would remain true.

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