The other road. The one less traveled. That was me. “I wish”—she paused for a deep breath. “I wish I had—your courage.”
“Shhh.” That was a twist, seeing my tendency to go off-road as an admirable trait. Must have been the pain meds. “You’re the strong one, Maddie. You’re the one who always knew what she wanted and didn’t let anyone stand in her way. I’m the drifter, the one who could never figure out what to do. You will come back from this stronger than ever.”
“No,” she said. “You. You never—let anyone—push you. You—made your own path.”
A pair of aides walked in, their rubber-soled shoes making soft squeak-and-suck sounds on the vinyl floor. “Time for the restroom,” one said, a little too cheerily. She started moving the equipment aside. Maddie protested, her focus still on me.
“You’re getting her up already?” I asked. “She just came out of a coma a day or two ago.”
“Can’t let those muscles stiffen,” the aide replied. “Movement speeds healing.”
Maybe so, but it still surprised me. I stood. I needed to get back to my shop.
“Stay, stay,” Maddie said, bobbing her hand at me as the aides shuffled her toward the bathroom. “I know you think—but I never wanted—”
“I’ll stay,” I said. I’d rescued the water container from the sheets as the staff were getting Maddie up and I set it on the tray next to an old photo album, covered in black leather and trimmed in gold. “What’s this?”
“Her mother brought it in this morning,” the aide said over her shoulder. “To jog her memory now that she’s awake. Along with all those.” She nodded to a stack of albums and memory books on the nightstand.
“Good idea.” I sat back in the chair, flipping pages. A black-and-white slideshow.
Then I stopped. Flipped back. I’d seen some of these photos in Frank Thomas’s insurance office, including one of the long-gone redbrick grocery that had stood where Maddie planned her modern version. In this one, the building was complete. A panel truck was parked on the street, and next to it stood a man and a boy of ten or twelve, sharing nearly identical smiles. On the sidewalk, bushel baskets brimmed with produce. I pegged the picture for the early 1930s.
But what struck me was the name painted above the front door, and again on the redbrick wall of the taller building next door: “GREGORIAN and SON—GROCERS.”
Twenty
When it rains, it pours.
—motto of Morton Salt, adopted in 1914, after the company added an absorbing agent to keep its salt flowing freely, even in wet weather
WATER, WATER EVERYWHERE AS I DASHED BACK TO THE CAR. Inside, I blasted the vent to clear the windshield. If only clearing my head were so easy.
Maddie Petrosian had just upended my entire view of her, and of our friendship. What was it she’d wanted to say, about never having wanted—what?
And why did her family album include a photo of the original building on the redevelopment site?
Tim had not returned by the time the aides brought Maddie back to bed. Even that simple effort had exhausted her, and she’d said nothing more than “I love you, Pepper.”
I’d kissed her cheek, told her I loved her, too, and left. Ramon the security guard hunched over his duty post as I walked out. Officer Clark was not in sight.
Now I let out a deep sigh and put the car in gear. Traffic was no worse than usual, thank goodness. I parked in the Market garage for the second time this week and dashed down Upper Post Alley, past the Pink Door and Vinny’s wine shop.
What was I going to do about Maddie, the building, and the photo? What was I going to do about Edgar? Had I made the right call in trusting Tariq? And if I went straight from work to the Montlake community meeting, what would I do with Arf?
Sometimes it feels like life is one big question. I opened the door to my shop and drank in the scents: lavender and clove, cinnamon and oregano. For the time being, at least, spice was the answer.
“THANKS for letting me leave Arf with you for a couple of hours,” I told Kristen that evening.
“Are you kidding? The girls can’t get enough of him,” she replied. “And Maddie’s kids will love him. Tell Laurel I’d be there, if I hadn’t agreed to take them tonight.”
The Montlake Community Center looks like an oversized version of Hansel and Gretel’s house. Beyond, in an expansive urban green space, are a playground, tennis courts, and soccer fields. The rain had stopped and the last rays of sunlight lit up the marshes where they dropped into deep shadow beneath the bridge.
Laurel met me in the parking lot. After a quick hug, she surveyed the place. “All the hours I spent here watching Gabe learn to kick a soccer ball, watching him practice, waiting for him . . .”
“Have you talked to him?” I asked. “About the possible break in the case, I mean?” Although it wasn’t much of a break, not yet.
“I wasn’t sure what to say,” Laurel said. “He told me he’d had another dream. He was running across a big field, like this one, and a shadow passed overhead. Everything got cold and he was terrified. But then it moved off and left behind a shimmery golden light.”
My mother says dreams are teachers, precursors, guides, as real as waking life, and sometimes more.
“Then, he said that earlier in the day, he’d been crossing campus between classes and the Goodyear Blimp drifted by. They’re using it to film overhead shots for the football game this weekend.”
And sometimes dreams are jokes.
“But yes, I told him,” she said, and slipped an arm
