Anna pulled into her driveway a little after four and jammed on the parking brake. Dried big-leaf maple leaves crunched underfoot as she stomped from the truck to the porch stairs. Opening the door to an empty house continued to unnerve her, and once she put the groceries away, ate one of the chocolate bars, and swept the kitchen floor clean of the grit she’d tracked in, the stillness inside her house pressed at her chest and shoved her outdoors.
She grabbed a slicker off the coatrack and headed to the beach to clear her head.
Losing a client like Harry delivered a double blow—to her income and her ego—and she could kick herself. Twice. She’d neglected to stay on top of design trends she once tracked with a sharp eye. And by lowering already low-key island chic to new levels of I-don’t-care, she’d neglected to present herself as a business owner, to other business owners.
She stalked from her end of the pebbled cove to the other and back, continuing to fume at Harry and herself. The rocks underfoot were slippery in places, and her silent venting was interspersed with a few arm flails and yelps. At least there was no one around to witness her lack of grace, and when chilled air threaded its fingers through her layers, she walked the half-moon-shaped circuit for the last time and headed home.
Tossing her jacket onto the hook by the door, she toed off her boots, padded to her bedroom to change, and emptied the last of a bottle of wine into the first glass she grabbed. Standing at the sink to rinse out the bottle, the view through the window toward the cove revealed her favorite sitting rock, now occupied by a man decked out in a red jacket and a knit cap.
She could begin to rectify her sense of social isolation by putting her coat back on, going out, and introducing herself. He might be the man she’d met earlier, the tourist who appeared a bit lost in the grocery store. They could laugh about the coincidence.
Or she could stay in her cozy kitchen, comfortable in her flannel pajama pants, and sip inexpensive wine from a cheap glass while she reheated last night’s leftover vegetable stew.
Anna tugged the café curtains across the window and stirred the contents of the cast-iron pot, rehearsing her thanks-but-no-thanks argument for when she informed Elaine she would not accompany her to Vancouver. Intimacy workshops were too far a reach for her short arms, and if the walls of her cottage could talk, they would all but affirm she was a fifty-year-old woman anchored by routine, grown complacent with her worn and familiar surroundings. Her closet, filled with clothes that no longer fit, marked a growing indifference to how she presented herself to the world outside.
And wine in a juice glass was pure laziness.
Movement on the beach shifted her attention off the dive into the pool of self-abasement she kept filled for nights like this. The man in the red jacket made his way to the flat-roofed cottage next door. Lights went on in the front room and in the kitchen. Anna sipped at her wine. Her inner chatter mellowed, giving over to alcohol-infused musing.
Maybe her new neighbor would be around for a while.
Maybe he had a wife, or a husband, and they could get together for dinner and conversation and she could figure out how to be witty again. She didn’t need any special breathing techniques to hold her own at a dinner party; she just needed someone to set her a place and offer her a seat. When Gary was alive, gathering with friends was practically effortless. But the longer she was single and the longer she went between trips into town, the longer the time between invitations to socialize.
And here it was, the end of September, with Canadian Thanksgiving two weeks away, and she had no idea where she would celebrate the holiday.
She drained her glass, turned from the window, and switched on her desktop. The ancient machine went through its repertoire of wheezing and whirring until the screen glowed blue. Birthday greetings formed a short queue in her inbox. She opened half a dozen animated cards from familiar senders, left the rest for later, and scanned for any work-related emails.
One sender didn’t register at first, but the opening salutation set her pulse racing.
Dear Annalissa,
I have been trying to find you, on and off, for the past few years. I wasn’t having any success, and then I came across a notice in an old alumni newsletter of your husband’s death.
My sincere condolences on your loss.
Now I know I couldn't find you because your name changed. I hope you remember me. Would you like to correspond?
The six-line message settled itself on her lap like a pet unsure if it would be stroked or pushed to the floor. Anna rested her palms to either side of the keyboard, the beat of her heart thudding, and stared at the signature at the bottom of the note.
Daniel Strauss.
A rogue wave of longing made short work of the fragile clasp on her chest of memories. Another wave tumbled the container, spilling its contents over the living room floor.
Anna rose, those same waves compelling her to the door and out onto the porch, no stopping for a coat or shoes, no stopping for something that would shield her from the uprising swells of emotion or the downpour of rain. Outside the house, she could let the wide expanse of the Salish Sea carry away whatever had been uncorked by one simple email. Inside the house, her memories were too entangled with her years as a wife and mother.
She could not have predicted Daniel Strauss would reappear in her life, especially at a moment when she was in such a funk. She could not have predicted six lines of text would deliver a punch strong
