The Unsinkable Greta James(34)

“Maybe you should rest,” Greta says, but he ignores this.

“I didn’t see her again for years,” he continues. “She went off to Vanderbilt, and I went off to the war, and when I got back, I started bartending at this place called—”

“The Fat Owl,” Greta said.

Conrad nods. “Anyway, one night she walks in with her boyfriend, some preppy guy she met at school. I get them some drinks, and they sit at the bar, and he starts explaining the rules of baseball to her in this really condescending way while she doodles on a napkin, and the whole time I’m thinking: This guy? Really?”

“So then he goes to the bathroom…” Greta prompts, because this is taking longer than usual, and her eyelids are getting heavy.

“I’m wiping down the bar, and she’s still drawing on the napkin, and without even looking up, she goes, ‘How’s the pollen count today?’ I just about fell over. That was it for me. Our eyes met. I asked what was on the napkin and she showed me a picture of a penguin, and I said I could do even better.” He squeezes his eyes shut and laughs hoarsely. “I don’t know what came over me. But I wrote down my phone number.”

“Bold move.”

“It was,” he says, looking satisfied, and when their eyes meet, the warmth between them is real. For a second, Greta is reminded that they have at least one thing in common: they both loved her mother more than anything. He scratches at his chin, his eyes filled with amusement. “And it worked. A few weeks later, she came back to the bar, and that time, she was alone.”

“And the rest is history,” Greta says, which is meant to make him smile, but somehow it has the opposite effect. Instead, his face goes slack.

“Yeah, well, I guess it’s all history now,” he says, and to Greta’s horror, there are tears in the corners of his eyes. He shakes his head. “We were supposed to be doing this part together.”

“What part?”

“Winding down.”

“Dad, come on. You’re only seventy.”

He looks as if this makes it worse, and she knows he’s thinking about all the lonely years that could still be ahead of him. He wipes an arm roughly across his face, then makes a show of arranging his pillows and pulling up his blankets. “Anyway, you should get going.”

“Dad.”

“I’m fine.”

She bites her lip. “Are you sure you don’t—”

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he says with such finality that Greta has no choice but to scrape back the chair. For a second, she stands over him, and he does look old, but also somehow very young too, his pajamas a bit too big, his hair sticking up in the back. She remembers when she was a kid, the way he’d poke his head into the garage to tell her it was time for dinner. Sometimes she wouldn’t hear him over the sound of the guitar, and then she’d look up to find him looming there, solid and immovable, filling up all that space in the doorway.

She puts her jacket back on, then walks over to the door. “Lights on or off?” she asks, a hand on the switch, and he mumbles something she doesn’t hear. She flicks off the light and lingers there another few seconds, listening to the sound of his breathing. After a moment, she opens the door to the hallway, letting in a wedge of fluorescent light.

Just as she’s about to walk out, she hears him say, “Good night.”

“Good night,” she says, closing the door behind her.





Chapter Fourteen


In the morning, the sky is a brilliant blue, so sunlit and dazzling that people can talk of little else at the breakfast buffet.

“Perfect glacier weather,” says the cruise director over the loudspeaker.

“Not a single cloud,” marvels Todd, squinting at the windows.

“Such a shame your dad is missing this,” says Mary as she squirrels away a banana for him.

“Don’t forget your sunscreen,” says the old lady when she passes Greta at the coffee machine.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Greta calls back.

It’ll be hours before they reach Glacier Bay, but already there’s an air of anticipation on the ship. While they eat, Davis and Todd indulge their newfound fascination with the cannery industry, swapping stats like they’re talking about baseball. Eleanor takes the opportunity to nudge a flyer for the variety show in Greta’s direction.

“In case you change your mind,” she says with a wink. “Todd and I will be ballroom dancing. We’ve been taking lessons the last couple years.”

“Wow,” Greta says, wondering if the Fosters ever get tired of hanging out with so many white people. She turns to Mary with a little grin. “Are you guys ballroom dancing too?”

“My feet would never be the same,” Mary says, nodding at Davis across the table. “But we’ll do something, I’m sure.”

“We’d love to see you up there,” Eleanor says, looking at Greta hopefully. “And it might be a nice chance to—”

“No thanks.” Greta makes an effort to keep her voice light, though she feels a twinge of annoyance at Eleanor’s persistence. She pushes the flyer back across the table. “But I’ll be there to cheer you guys on.”

At the next table, a chorus of “Happy Birthday” breaks out. They look over to see a small, stooped Hispanic man surrounded by his extended family, all of them beaming as they watch him blow out the candle that’s sticking out of his pancakes. Tied to his chair, there’s a huge bunch of colorful helium balloons, and Mary turns to Greta with a smile.