Blackberry Winter: A Novel (14 page)

I popped another piece of scone in my mouth and set the plate down. “What is it?”

He leaned against the wall. “Why don’t you see for yourself?”

I carefully lifted the edge of the flap and peered inside, pulling out a folded scrap of paper and a black-and-white photograph. I set the brittle paper aside and held the photo up to the light. Worn, its scalloped edges tattered, it depicted a woman and a man lost in a romantic embrace. The woman, beautiful in a shy sort of way, with cropped hair that curled at the edges and a simple dress belted at the waist, stared lovingly up at the man in his smart suit. He smiled back at her with adoration. Clearly, they were in love, this couple. Anyone could see that.
Could this be Vera and her husband? Daniel’s father?
I turned the photograph over to find a caption on the reverse. “Vera and Charles, March, 1929, Seattle Dance Marathon.”

I grinned. “Dance marathon?” The words sounded foreign on my tongue. “Do you have any idea what that is?”

Dominic scratched his head. “Wait a sec, do you remember that scene from
It’s a Wonderful Life
? The one when they’re dancing and—”

I instantly appreciated that he knew the movie, one of my favorites. “Yes!” I said. “They fall into the pool underneath the dance floor.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I think that’s a dance marathon. I read about one in a novel. People would try to dance until they were too exhausted to keep going. They’d dance for prizes—cash, free stuff, whatever. Sometimes they’d go on for days.”

“Days?”

“Yeah, I remember the character in the book I read had bloody feet at the end.”

I looked at the photo of the young couple again and wondered what had happened on the night of the dance marathon. It had been taken before Daniel’s birth.
Was Vera happy then? And who was this man, this Charles? How was the photo left here?

I ran my finger along its scalloped edges and remembered the box of family photos I’d rescued from my grandmother’s home before she moved to the retirement center. Aunt Beth had left them by the garbage can. “Just old black-and-whites,” she had said, flicking her wrist in the way one might dismiss a pile of junk mail. “Relatives nobody remembers.”

“No,” I said, running to the box. “Don’t throw them out. I’ll keep them.” I may not have known the names of the majority of the ancestors pictured inside, but it felt like a betrayal to send their memories to the landfill. I couldn’t bear the thought.

I tucked the photo safely inside the envelope and picked up the yellowed paper once again, unfolding it carefully so as not to tear it.

“Look,” I said to Dominic. “It’s a drawing.” The stick figure on the page was the work of a child—that was certain. I squinted to make out the faded pen-and-ink scene. “It’s a drawing of”—I held it closer—“two children, and a woman, I think. See, look at the hat. The women all wore big, beautiful hats back then. I think those are feathers, or maybe it’s a bow. I can’t tell.”

“You’re good,” Dominic said.

I smiled to myself. “I have a three-year-old niece who sends me new drawings in the mail every few weeks. I’m a bit of a pro at this.”

Dominic moved nearer, studying the page in my hands. “So do you think the little boy drew it? Could it be his?” His arm brushed my hand. My skin felt dry and taut. Tired. I wished I’d taken the time to shower instead of opting to run a brush through my hair and throw on a baseball cap.

“Sorry,” he said.

I shook my head, dismissing any lingering awkwardness. “No, I don’t think this is his.”

“Why?”

I pointed to the far right corner of the page. “See the heart?”

Dominic nodded.

“Boys don’t draw hearts.”

“Aha,” he said. “Good sleuthing. But it’s too bad. I thought this might be something Daniel made. I hoped it would be a clue for your story.”

I flipped the page over and noticed two words scrawled on the back. I studied the crude letters carefully. “Oh, this is a clue, all right,” I said. “See this? It’s a name. I think it says…” I paused. “Eva. Eva Morelandsteed.”

“Do you think she’s any relation to the little boy who was abducted?”

“Maybe,” I said, folding the paper back into its tidy square and nestling it inside the envelope. “Mind if I keep this for a while?”

“It’s yours,” Dominic said.

“Thanks.” I turned to the door, then looked back at him. “Hey, what are you doing today?”

A smile erupted on his face. “Nothing, why?”

“If you can sneak away, want to grab lunch somewhere?” If Ethan could lunch with Cassandra, I could lunch with Dominic.

“I’d love that,” he said, reaching for his jacket. “How about that little place in the market, the Italian bistro that just opened?”

I smiled to myself. “I hear the asparagus risotto is really something.”

“Great,” he said, zipping up his jacket. “The sun’s out. Let’s walk.”

“Sounds perfect,” I replied. The cool wind stung my tired skin, but my heart, at that moment, felt very warm.

Cassandra’s glowing review of Giancarlo’s had rendered getting a table impossible. The line out front told us to make other plans.

“I know of a little place downstairs, at the bottom of the Market,” Dominic suggested. “It’s been around forever. It’s nothing fancy—just diner fare. But you haven’t lived until you’ve tasted their ham-and-gravy sandwiches.”

“I’m in.”

We descended the stairs into the bowels of the Market, where the scent of curry and allspice wafted on the damp air.

“I love it down here,” Dominic said quietly, as if we’d stepped into sacred space. “Up there, that’s for tourists. This is the
soul
of the Market.”

I looked around in awe. “I can’t believe I’ve been in Seattle this long and haven’t been down here,” I said. “I didn’t even know there was a lower floor. I’m embarrassed.”

Dominic pointed to a shop on our right. “There, that’s where you can find some of the most exotic spices in the world.”

“I can smell them,” I said, taking in a breath of the aromatic air.

“And you have to try Al’s beignets.” He nodded a hello to an older man who stood behind a small food cart. “We’ll take four, extra powdered sugar,” he said, the scent of fried dough swirling. Dominic handed the man five dollars, then tucked a steaming hot bag into my hand. “For dessert.”

We walked a few paces farther and arrived at the restaurant. Just as Dominic had said, it was nothing fancy, just a few booths against the walls and scattered tables and chairs set with nothing more than napkin dispensers and Heinz ketchup bottles that looked like they needed a good wipe-down. A few men sat at the bar on stools with squeaky hinges and torn vinyl seats. A simple green sign that read
LINDGREN’S
hung over the entryway.

A gum-smacking waitress approached us, offering me a grease-stained menu before handing one to Dominic. “How’ve you been, sugar?”

“Pretty well, thanks.” He turned to me. “Claire, this is Donna. Donna, Claire.”

“Nice to meet you, sweetie,” the older woman said in a smoky voice before turning back to Dominic. “Haven’t seen you around in a while. Funny thing, just this morning there were some men in suits in here, talking about your—”

“Ah, yes, I’ve been busy,” he said uncomfortably, cutting off whatever else it was she was about to say. He gave me a nervous, apologetic smile.

Donna shrugged. “All right, you two. Let’s get you seated.”

He pointed to the far corner of the restaurant. “Do you mind if we grab that table over there by the windows?”

“Sure, hon,” she said, winking. “It’s got your name on it.”

My curiosity persisted as I took a seat in a wobbly chair. “Men in suits? What’s that all about?”

He pulled a napkin out of the old steel dispenser and began folding it into small squares. “Oh, who knows,” he said, feigning an unconvincing air of disinterest. “Maybe they were complaining about the slow service at the café. Some businessmen just don’t realize that it takes time to make a good cappuccino.” His voice sounded strangely distant for a moment before he snapped back to his cheerful self. “Sorry, I don’t mean to complain,” he said. “Maybe it’s a sign that I should take that vacation I’m always talking about going on.”

A seagull squawked from its perch outside, prompting a glance out the old casement windows. Single-paned and drafty, they kept a watchful eye on the ferries filing in and out of Elliott Bay. I had a feeling that he wasn’t giving me the whole story and was making an effort to change the topic, but I didn’t mind, really. “Where would you go?” I asked, resting my chin in my hand, elbow firmly planted on the table. “On this vacation?”

Dominic’s eyes lit up. “Oh, well, Australia first,” he said, tracing a spot on the table as if it were a map of the world laid out before him. “I’ve always wanted to see the reef. Then New Zealand, and maybe Fiji.”

I imagined him snorkeling through blue water, his golden skin darkened even more by the sun. “Sounds amazing,” I said. “So why haven’t you made the trip yet?”

“Well, I—”

Donna returned to take our order. “What will it be? The usual?”

Dominic looked at me. “I always get the ham-and-gravy sandwich.”

“We’ve been making it since the Great Depression,” Donna chimed in. “Back then coffee gravy was the poor-man’s staple. Now it’s high class. One of those gourmet magazines wrote it up last year. They sent a photographer out from New York City to take pictures.” She pointed to a frame on the wall.

“I’m sorry,” I said, a little confused. “Did you say
coffee
gravy?”

She nodded. “The ham is seared in the pan, and when the fat is rendered, we pour in some coffee and let it reduce down to a nice thick sauce. It’s how people stretched the dollar back then.”

“Well, I’m not much of a coffee drinker,” I said, “but I think I’ll try it anyway.”

“Good,” Donna said. “You won’t be disappointed. Folks have been eating this dish for almost a century now. It’s a classic. Side of mashed potatoes to go with?”

Dominic and I both nodded.

“So, how’s your article coming?”

“Well, I’m not really sure if it’s going anywhere. My editor is expecting copy tomorrow, and I don’t have a single word written.” I frowned. “I can’t stop thinking about that little boy.”

“Don’t lose heart,” he said. “The hardest things always turn out to be the most rewarding.”

Dominic’s words rang true. I thought of the first and only marathon I’d run, shortly after Ethan and I got married. I trained for nine months and barreled across the finish line with a bloody toe and cramped muscles, but I’d never felt so proud of myself, so self-assured. When Ethan scooped me into his arms and nuzzled his face against mine, sweaty and red, I felt a sense of peace I’d never felt before.

I looked out the window, squinting into the distance.

“What are you looking for out there?” Dominic asked.

“Bainbridge Island,” I said, turning back to him. “I’m taking the ferry over to visit an old friend tomorrow.”

He nodded. “Ah,” he said, as if reminiscing. “It’s a beautiful place. I’d love to live there someday.”

“Why don’t you? You could commute. It’s only a half-hour ferry.”

He looked at his hands in his lap. “I can’t,” he said. “At least not right now. Real estate is pricey on the island, and every extra dollar I make I send home.”

“Home?”

“My mom’s sick,” he replied. “No health insurance. The medication she takes is costly, but it keeps her alive.”

“Wow. I’m so sorry. So you’re supporting her?”

He nodded. “You’d love her.”

My cheeks flushed.

I heard my phone ringing in my bag, but I ignored it. “She must really love you,” I said. “There’s something special about a mother’s relationship with her son.” I refolded the napkin in my lap and rested my chin in my palm. “I can’t stop thinking of Vera and Daniel. Just knowing that they once made their home at the café.” I sighed again. “It’s haunting.”

Dominic grinned. “I always thought we had ghosts.”

A few moments later, Donna returned with two plates. True to its description, the ham sandwich oozed with dark brown gravy. I sank my teeth in unabashedly.

“What do you think?” Dominic asked.

“Wow,” I said. “This is
good
.”

He smiled proudly. “I knew you’d like it.”

I heard my phone ringing again. This time I reached down, reluctantly, and fished it out of my bag, immediately seeing Ethan’s number on the screen.

“Sorry,” I said to Dominic. “Will you excuse me for a minute?”

“No problem.”

“Hello,” I answered, walking quickly outside the restaurant.

“Claire, I’ve been trying to get ahold of you all morning.”

I smirked. “To explain why you didn’t come home last night?”

“Claire, I’ve been at the hospital all night.”

I gasped. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine. It’s my grandfather. He had a heart attack. Right after he accepted the award last night at the gala. I’ve been by his bedside since he came out of surgery.”

“Oh no,” I said. “Is he going to be OK?”

“We’re not sure yet,” he said. “Time will tell. I tried to call you last night but you must have turned your phone off. And there was no answer at the apartment this morning.” He paused, detecting the noise around me. A man who appeared hard on his luck had begun playing a banjo a few steps away. “Where are you?”