His jacket lay draped across the bag, signaling his imminent departure.
I shook my head in confusion. “Where are you going?”
“Oh, that,” he said, his eyes meeting mine. “I thought I’d stay on the island for a while—until we sort things out.”
I gulped.
“I thought we could use…the time apart.” He searched my eyes for approval. “We’ve been through so much this past year,” he continued. “It’ll be good for us. We could both use some time to…figure things out.”
“Right,” I said quickly. “Of course.” My eyes burned. I walked around his desk and kissed his cheek. I knew I had to leave quickly or run the risk of sobbing in his office. I didn’t want to plead with him to stay. I wanted him to want to stay. “Well,” I said, feeling a lump in my throat, “then I guess this is…good-bye.”
I didn’t wait to see his face, nor did I hear what he mumbled as I walked out the door. I had to leave. The air inside those four walls felt thick and suffocating. Outside the door, I closed my eyes and thought of the little sailboat my grandmother gave me when I was a child. The memory, foggy at first, came rushing in so clear, I could feel the spray of the seawater on my face. I had played with the little boat lovingly each summer in the tide pools on the beach, until one July when I worked up the courage to take it into the ocean, an idea inspired solely by a children’s book from the 1950s that I’d found in a chest in the spare bedroom, Scuffy the Tugboat. So I set the little boat on the shore, gave it a swift push, and immediately watched a wave wrap its tendrils around the tiny mast, sweeping it out to sea. It broke my heart to see it go, and I stared at the shore for a long time after that, scolding myself. I’d sent it away, just as I feared I’d pushed my husband away.
I couldn’t bear to stay at the office any longer, so I collected my bag from my desk and walked outside. I looked up when I heard the screech of a car, inches from me, followed by the honk of an angry driver. “Watch where you’re going!” shouted the man behind the wheel. “I nearly ran you over!”
I nodded and walked on, hardly affected by the exchange, across the street and to the parking lot, where Ethan’s BMW waited. I stared at the shiny car for a moment, blinking back tears. It glimmered in the spring sun, so flashy, so sad. A symbol of our failed marriage. I shook my head, turned back to the street, and hailed a cab.
Warren lived in an older high-rise downtown. He’d purchased the penthouse suite with his late wife years ago. It was a grand place—or at least, it once was. The private rooftop deck, above the living room, used to be my favorite hideaway in Seattle. On warm nights, Ethan and I would join Warren for wine there, counting the stars overhead, taking in a panoramic view only birds were fortunate enough to have—from the Space Needle to Alki Beach. No one went up there anymore, though. The spiral staircase had become too difficult for Warren’s weak knees, and Ethan had become too busy for wine and stargazing. I’d been on the roof a final time in the spring only to discover that it had become a nesting ground for a family of very messy pigeons.
Warren had let the housekeeper go just after Christmas. “I don’t care if there’s dust on my coffee table!” he had exclaimed to Glenda on a visit months ago as she eyed the stacks of disheveled magazines and books and dust-caked windowsills. Warren was the only Kensington who seemed to care less about keeping up with appearances, and I’d always loved him more for it. Still, there was no denying that he hadn’t been himself of late. I’d blamed his illness, but I couldn’t help but wonder if there was something more. I took a deep breath and buzzed his apartment number.
“Yes?”
“Warren, it’s me, Claire.”
“Yes,” he said. “Come on up.”
I took the elevator to the twenty-third floor, imagining what he’d say when I got there. He’d tell me I couldn’t print the story because it would disgrace the family. He’d say that it would incriminate Josephine, rest her soul. He’d make me promise not to utter a word of it.