In frigid darkness I boarded the 2:00 AM shuttle to SeaTac airport, traveling lightly with a few outfits, my laptop and a book. I had mailed clothing and gifts and hoped they would be waiting for me at the cottage when I arrived. My mind wandered, exposing snippets of conversations from our most recent group therapy session. Gary had joined us, and I was captured by his sweet and trusting personality. His sensual handling of the dough revealed his natural talent for craft. He spoke of his shipbuilding as if it were his child, something to nurture and protect. It reminded me of the flowing prose of Callum’s novel, and I was disappointed when the session drew to a close. Veronica clung to his words, touching his arm as he rose to leave. Outside, they paused under the streetlamp, curious and engaged.
When I returned home that evening, I discovered Callum’s first book had been delivered. I longed to curl up in my favorite chair and read it cover to cover, but knew it would have to wait, as I continued my travel preparations. James phoned again; humbled I would put my life on hold to support him. He asked if there was anything he could do for me at the cottage. It was an unsettling question. The cottage had always been my domain. It was our meeting place, but I never considered it “ours.” I stiffened at the implications.
Snoring on the shuttle bench behind me accosted my senses, but I could not control my thoughts. There was a time in my life when I dreamed of this moment, but these circumstances were never in my fantasy. I loved Melinda. Everyone loved Melinda. Her tiny paintings, wet with secrets, hung in my bedroom. I collected them over the years and treasured each. In my fantasies, she would run away with an artist lover, or leave James, fed up with his high-profile career. I never imagined her taken by a reckless cancer in the prime of her life. Each day I moved in guilt, hoping my journey would bring absolution and I would learn to grieve.
The shuttle arrived at the airport and I realized I didn’t remember much of the ride. I debated the merits of mixing caffeine with sedatives and decided I had time for coffee to work its way through my system before the flight. Juggling a tall cup of coffee and a pumpkin scone, I found an empty row of seats and settled in for the wait. The information screen showed no flight delays, but I knew a late winter storm was expected in New York. I finished my snack and cleaned up the debris as passengers straggled in, squinty eyes scanning for seats with the least risk of human contact.
My new bag rested on the seat next to me. It was a luxury I permitted myself for the trip, and something wholly out of character. The soft sage background, with brilliant coral and lavender flowers reminded me of summers at the cottage. I knew things would be different now, barren and unfamiliar. The design blurred in front of me, and I remembered the book tucked inside. I still had time to read before the departure, so I withdrew it and stroked the raised title on the cover, “Burying Genevra.”
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