“Stella,” Marianne awkwardly tilts her chair to address me like a high school guidance counselor. “If you’re going to spend so much time agonizing about him, would you atleasttry and give him a call?”
“He doesn’t want to hear from me, Mer.”
”How do you know if you haven’t tried? Maybe he’s sitting around thinking the same thing!”
“Because I ruinedeverything! What am I supposed to say? Oh hey, sorry I chose my fake brother over you and was complicit in a lie that completely destroyed your career. Wanna go for tacos?”
“This isn’t all on you Stell. He knew what he was risking."
“And,” Will adds between mouthfuls of scalloped potato, “if he was really willing to throw his career down the gutter for you, don’t you think he might deserve a phone call?”
Even if I wanted to call Caleb, I can’t. He’s got no online presence—no one I can reach out to without rousing suspicion. Any hope I had of seeing him again disappeared when I let him walk off the Vela Bianca. I can’t even look at my sketches anymore: I was in such a hurry to get off the boat that I left my book behind.
“What’s done is done,” I tell them. “Caleb’s gone, Mer. And the further I can stay from destroying any more of his life, the better.”
“Ugh,” Marianne sighs. “You’re impossible. I need a drink.”
“And I’m happy to get you one, babe,” Will tells her. “In about nine weeks. But there’s cake!”
Marianne gives me one final, pleading look with her big brown Bambi eyes.
“You go,” I say. “I’ll meet you in a few.”
“William,” she growls, hooking an arm beneath the bowling ball in her stomach. “Help me up. I need to go stare longingly at a bottle of wine.”
The music starts up again and I watch Jules and Harry take to the dance floor for their first dance of the evening. Despite the lessons they’ve been taking since they returned from the ship, Harry is dancing like a bear in lederhosen. But it’s not Harry I’m staring at. On the other side of the dance floor, someone who looks all too familiar orders a drink at the bar. Tall. Lean build. Curly, golden brown hair. I think I literally feel my heart stop before tall handsome stranger turns around to show me that he is not, in fact, Caleb, but a forty-five-year-old man with a full beard. I have got to stop doing this. When I first got back to Chicago, I thought I saw him on every street corner. But our story, as magical as it was,is done. I can’t let missing Caleb distract me from starting a new one.
I stand up and head towards the dessert table when I feel a hand on my arm. I whorl around, expecting another old family friend who ‘hasn’t seen me since I was about yay high!’. But it’s not one of Dad’s college pals.
It’s Patricia.
“Stella,” she trills. To my surprise, Patricia has deviated from her usual black to a dark shade of navy that’s probably torturous for her. Standing beside her is much taller woman with a long, silver braid who looks vaguely familiar.
“Hi, Patricia. It’s good to?—”
“This is Samantha Wyle,” she says, interrupting me. “A friend of mine from Princeton. She’s based in Seattle as well and owns?—“
“The Wyle Gallery,” I finish for her, recognizing the name instantly.
“So you’re familiar?” Samantha extends her hand. “I’m glad to hear we’re still relevant to the iPhone generation. My grandson seems to believe we’re lost without a TikTok.”
I stare down at Samantha’s many turquoise rings. It this some kind of trap? Samantha doesn’t look like a hit man, but you never can tell…
“Patricia tells me you’ve just returned to Seattle,” she says when I remain mute. “How are you finding it so far?”
“It’s coming along,” I tell her. “I’m staying in a friend’s den until I can find something more permanent, but if you ask me, a Seattle basement beats a Chicago studio any day.”
Patricia and Samantha both give me a look that says they would certainly never consider either. Right. Rich people.
“Well I won’t keep you long, but I just wanted to introduce myself. Patricia sent me some of your work.”
My brain momentarily short circuits, and I have to repeat it back to myself to make sure I’ve heard her right. But she continues,“It’s quite promising. If you’re interested in applying, weoffer a fall fellowship for emerging artists that you might be quite well suited for.”
I try not to look visibly stunned. What reason could Patricia possibly have for wanting to help me? And more importantly, how would she have any of my work? Unless…
My sketchbook.I left in such a hurry I must have left it on the boat. My stomach flies into my throat. For a second, I think maybe I should be angry. She went through my book without permission? But the sting of the massive privacy violation is completely squelched by the fact that Samantha Wyle, owner and curator of one of Seattle’s most respected art institutions, is currently handing me her card.
Just please, God, let Patricia have omitted the drawing of Caleb as a merman.
