Tova is washing Cat’s breakfast bowl when Janice calls to invite her to lunch. Lunch out, on a Monday? What could this be about? Janice suggests they meet at the Shop-Way deli, and she sounds surprised when Tova suggests the Tex-Mex place down in Elland instead.
“Really? Okay. I’ll pick you up on my way,” Janice says.
They’re seated in a pleasantly plush booth with tortilla chips and salsa between them when Janice finally brings it up.
“This week will be your last Knit-Wits, huh?” Tova nods.
“I guess you assumed because there are only three of us left, we’d let you off without a farewell party?”
“Oh, nonsense. I don’t need a party.”
“Well, Barb said she’d bring cake.” Janice dredges a chip through the salsa. “So we’ll have that, at least.”
“How thoughtful of Barbara,” Tova says. “Cake sounds lovely.”
“Lovely,” Janice repeats. “Tova, pardon my language, but would you cut the shit for once and tell me exactly why you think you have to do this?”
Ah, so that’s what this is about. “I beg your pardon?”
“This!” Janice waves her hands around, as if the interior of the restaurant, with its quirky macrame wall hangings, is the offender. “Selling your house! Moving out of Sowell Bay! You’ve lived here all your life.”
“Charter Village is very nice,” Tova says mildly.
“Maybe it is, but these are our golden years. Why do you want to spend them with a bunch of strangers?” Janice’s voice cracks. “What about us?”
Tova starts to respond, but the words catch in her throat. “And furthermore,” Janice continues, holding up a stern
finger, like a judge in one of those courtroom dramas she enjoys watching, “what about Ethan Mack?”
Tova starts. “What about him?”
“Tova, he’s gaga for you. Why can’t you give him a chance?”
“Ethan is a wonderful man, but Will and I were—”
“Oh, stop. Look, I realize I haven’t been in your shoes, but Peter and I have talked about it. When one of us goes, the other must move on. We’re not that old, Tova. We still have good years ahead of us. Decades, even. Seventy is the new sixty!”
In spite of herself, Tova lets out a short chuckle. “Where did you hear that? One of those talk shows?”
“Whatever. Please, Tova, rethink this. If it’s really what you want, then fine, go. But it’s not the only way.”
“Janice, you must understand something.” Tova folds her hands in her lap. “I am not like you and Mary Ann and Barbara. I don’t have children who will come stay with me when I’ve had a fall. I don’t have grandchildren who will stop over to unclog my drain or make sure I’m taking my pills. And I won’t put that burden on my friends and neighbors.”
“There’s your problem,” says Janice softly. “Assuming it’s a burden.”
“Charter Village might not be the only way, but it’s the best way.” Tova sets her jaw. “And besides, it’s done. I’m going to sign the papers for the sale of the house on Wednesday.”
“And when do you move into Charter Village?”
“Next week, but I’ll stay in one of those hotels down in Everett.”
With a defeated smile, Janice says, “I suppose Barb and I will have to come visit once you move in, then. Maybe you can book us appointments at the fancy spa.”
“Of course,” Tova says.
A chipper waitress arrives moments later and, with a cheery grin, spits out a list of specialty margarita flavors. Janice requests a diet soda. Tova orders black coffee. The waitress nods and trots away but returns a moment later to apologize and explain that they don’t have any coffee prepared at the moment. Not much demand for it in the afternoon. Would Tova like to wait fifteen minutes for it to brew? Or might she be interested in something from the espresso bar? Cappuccino, latte, mocha?
“A small latte, I suppose,” Tova says a bit reluctantly.
Espresso bar. How very indulgent.
ON TUESDAY AFTERNOON, Tova readies herself for a trip to Shop- Way, her first since that disastrous dinner at Ethan’s house.
And her last, perhaps. She just needs to pick up a few essentials. The fridge is still half-full, and her moving date inches closer. Never would she have thought she could go so long between grocery runs, but those freezer casseroles have had legs. All of the potatoes and noodles and gravy and cheese have added a certain plumpness to Tova’s cheeks, which she found herself admiring in her bathroom mirror this morning after she bathed. After she dressed, she even dabbed a bit of blush on her cheekbones.
Four times before she leaves, she checks to make sure the Grateful Dead T-shirt is in her tote bag. This isn’t simply a shopping trip, after all. On her way out the front door, she’s somewhat startled to see the newspaper still sitting there on her front mat, coiled and waiting. She was so occupied this morning that it never occurred to her to take it in. Her subscription was supposed to be canceled, but when she pointed it out to the young man on the route the other day, he just shrugged and said he might as well bring her
one as long as she was still there; he always has a bunch left over anyway. Tova had smiled and thanked him. He’s a nice kid, and she gave him a good tip last Christmas.
In any case, her crossword needs are now being met through other channels. Last week, Janice challenged her to a competitive crossword game through a message that popped up on her cell phone, and with one tap of a button, there were crosswords galore right there on the little screen.
So many crosswords. As many as anyone could ever want. Isn’t that something?
Of course, Tova has won every match so far, but Janice is improving quickly.
At the Shop-Way, Ethan is manning the deli when Tova enters the store. With a pen tucked behind his ear, he halts the conversation he’s having with a customer midsentence and waves.
“Hello, Ethan,” she calls, her voice even. She lifts a shopping basket from the stack at the store’s front.
“Afternoon, love,” he says, giving her a resigned look before going back to taking the order of the group crowded into the booth.
Tova shops thoughtfully, giving each item she adds to her cart an extra layer of scrutiny. Jams and jellies are on promotion: buy one, get one free. But Tova doesn’t need two jellies. She might not even need one. Of course, she won’t be needing her own jam at Charter Village, although her suite will have a small kitchenette with a refrigerator. She selects a small jar of raspberry preserves, which could be brought along if she doesn’t use it up this week.
Two checkout lanes are running when she finishes, and she’s relieved to see that Ethan has finished with the group in the deli and is now tending the one on the left. It’s no contest to choose that one, even though the line is longer. She arranges her modest collection of groceries on the belt, then carefully tucks the T-shirt, which she’s rolled neatly, at
the end, nestling it between her quart of milk and a waxy orange grapefruit.
“Congratulations on the sale of your house.” Ethan clears his throat, as if trying to cough away the awkwardness. He rings through the bread, jam, coffee, eggs. Not looking up, he scans her packet of wafer crackers, weighs her single green apple. Finally, he picks up the white shirt, and he turns it over twice in his left hand while aiming the scanner with his right, looking for a UPC code, before recognition dawns on his face. His mouth falls open as he allows the shirt to unroll.
“Where on earth did you . . . ?” His voice sounds like it’s caught in a net. “I mean, how did you find . . . ?”
Tova straightens. “I bought it on the internet.” “You what?”
“It was one of those online auctions. Janice Kim helped me,” she admits.
Suddenly stern, he asks, “How much did you spend on this, Tova?”
“Well, I don’t see how that’s any of your concern.”
He rolls the shirt back up and gives it a perturbed shake. “These are expensive. Thousands of dollars.”
There are three customers waiting in line behind Tova now. Two of them crane their necks, straining to soak up the drama.
“There’s no need to get upset,” she hisses. “I’m simply replacing the item I ruined.”
Ethan holds the shirt close to his chest. “It was just a T- shirt,” he mumbles.
“It was important to you,” Tova says, her voice shaky. “Many things are important to me.”
“I’m sorry,” Tova whispers.
“Don’t say that, love.” His large green eyes are heavy. “I’d give away a hundred of those bloody shirts to redo that supper at my house.” He holds the shirt back up, taking in
the Grateful Dead concert image. He smiles at Tova. “You really bought this on the internet?”
“Indeed. And I drove to Tukwila to pick it up.”
Ethan’s eyes widen. “You drove all the way down there?” “Yes.”
“On the freeway?”
“Well, there wasn’t another practical route.” “You’re quite a woman, Tova. Did you know that?”
Tova doesn’t know how to respond, so she just holds out the stack of bills to pay for her groceries. But when she arrives back home, while she smears butter on a wafer cracker and slices the single green apple, she replays his words in her head on a loop.
TOVA MEETS JESSICA SNELL at an attorney’s office down in Elland at eleven on Wednesday morning, as instructed, to sign her portion of the closing papers.
The papers, it turns out, are not quite ready. The hard knot in Tova’s chest softens, briefly, at the notion that she might not have to do this today. But it’s a glitch with the copier; it will only delay things a few minutes. The receptionist apologizes profusely for this setback and offers Jessica and Tova coffee, which Jessica declines but Tova gladly accepts. It’s the watery kind, and the paper cup has a waxy aftertaste, but Tova sips it anyway. While they wait in a small conference room, Jessica tells Tova more about the buyers, which is not information that Tova asked for, necessarily. It’s a family from Texas. Three little ones. The husband’s job has relocated him, and he and his wife took a trip up this summer to scope out real estate. They fell hard for Tova’s house. The view, the architecture. They said that although they’ll be making plenty of updates, the house has amazing bones.
“My father would be pleased to hear that,” Tova says politely.
The paperwork finally makes its entrance. A woman wearing slacks and a cantaloupe-colored blouse sits next to Tova and walks her through the forms. Tova’s pen scratches on the paper as she signs her name.
“The buyers do appreciate your willingness to close quickly,” Jessica says. “Their agent wanted me to pass that along.”
“Certainly,” Tova says. A quick closing suited her as well. Why drag it out? The Texans had been gracious, too, to push back the turning over of keys for a couple of days to accommodate her Charter Village move-in date.
“And this is a little odd, but they also noted that the house was phenomenally neat and tidy when they did the inspection,” Jessica says with a genuine smile. “Their agent told me the wife said it looked like something out of a magazine. I thought you might enjoy hearing that.”
Tova lets out a small laugh. “As I’m sure you’re aware, I am nothing if not neat and tidy.”
“Everyone in Sowell Bay is aware of that. You’ll be missed, Tova.”
With a smile and congratulations, the woman in the cantaloupe blouse shakes her hand, and then Jessica Snell shakes her hand, too. Tova never liked shaking hands, well, not with people, anyway. Octopuses are another story. But she clasps.
So, it’s done.
LATER THAT AFTERNOON, Tova ventures up to the attic, to what little is left of the piles of linens and photographs. It’s time to finish now.
On the ceiling, the rafters glow in the afternoon sun. Tova eases herself down to lie on her back on the floor and stares up at the beams the way she used to when she was a teenager. Like the house is a great wooden monster and she’s looking, from inside, at its rib cage. It does indeed have amazing bones, and it will make a good home for
someone. For this family from Texas. For their three little ones.
Will the children use the attic as a playroom? Tova hopes so. She pictures three happy siblings, laughing together under the rafters, talking to one another in pint-sized Texas accents. Perhaps there will be more children; perhaps the parents are not done yet, and the family will grow, filling the house, bursting it from the seams like the large clan from Ethan’s unfulfilled dream. The parents will grow old atop this mountain of a family they’ve built, and even if parts of it crumble, from time to time, there will be enough left to support them.
They will not have to pack up tea towels alone.
She drags in a long breath and sits up. “Enough of that,” she says aloud. Enough of allowing one single summer night in 1989 to shape every last aspect of her life. Enough searching for answers that no longer exist. Enough of living with these ghosts, in this house. Charter Village will be a new start.
For the next two hours, she packages up the remaining towels and sheets and other odds and ends. To a box of books she’s keeping, packed half-full so it won’t be too unwieldy, she adds the Sowell Bay High School yearbook where she first found Daphne Cassmore.
She remembers the photo, the young woman’s smiling face, now pressed between the pages of the heavy book. Had it been a fool’s errand, attempting to find her? Perhaps, but how could she not try? Wherever and whoever she is, Daphne Cassmore is the last person who saw Erik alive. Tova will never be able to stop her gaze from lingering on faces in crowds that bear even a slight resemblance to that yearbook photo.
On the other side of the picture window, a spotless blue sky holds court over the water, whose ripples shimmer gently as a speedboat cuts a wedge-shaped wake across the bay. How strange it will be at Charter Village, whose campus
is several miles inland. How strange to wake up in the morning and not see the water.
“I wish you could tell me,” she says to the bay. She will always wish this. But even knowing what happened that night can’t bring him back. Nothing can.
She closes the box flaps and seals them up with tape.
