“Agreed,” he said. “Sometimes I wonder why people want to get involved in a relationship in the first place. Statistically, most of them are doomed from the start.”
Gwen’s shoulders slumped a little. Maybe she was just a hopeless romantic, but deep down, she still wanted to believe in love and marriage. Her parents, after thirty-five years, were still happy together. They were best friends, and her father still looked at her mother as if she were the most beautiful creature on earth.
The appetizers arrived—they’d both ordered the scallops—and Gwen was grateful for the diversion. She didn’t want to talk about relationships anymore, especially their failed ones. Besides, that wasn’t why she’d invited Peter to dinner. They were here to discuss their shared interest in Scarlett Fontaine’s lost year.
Peter brought up one of Scarlett’s early films in which she’d played a young European princess who became a nurse during World War I. They talked about her performance and how that character had shaped her image for the rest of her career. Scarlett often chose roles where she faced life-and-death situations and behaved heroically. She never played a villain or a misfit.
“Was it all an act?” Peter asked. “Was she really as perfect as she seemed in her films? In real life, she never had a deep and lasting relationship with anyone, and she died alone. Maybe she had issues.”
“I’ve often wondered that,” Gwen replied. “She lost her mother at a young age and had a controlling father. Maybe she wasn’t capable of trusting a man. On the other hand, maybe she wanted to be in control of her own life. There’s nothing wrong with a woman who chooses not to get married. That takes self-confidence and independence, especially in the previous century, when women were groomed to become wives and mothers. They were brought up believing that they needed a man to provide for them. I like to think that she was fulfilled by her career and her music and that was enough for her.”
Gwen finished her last scallop and dabbed the corner of her mouth with the napkin.
“There’s no way I’m going to disagree with you about that,” Peter said.
She chuckled. “That’s good, because no one would question her life choices if she were a man. No one would suggest that she had emotional issues.”
“You’re right. An older man who doesn’t marry is considered an eligible bachelor. But a woman is called a spinster. What’s that old saying? She’s put on the shelf?”
Gwen was rather enjoying this debate. “I don’t know what happened in Alaska,” she said, “but based on what I do know, I think Scarlett chose what she wanted for herself—and she was strong and independent. The ultimate feminist. She moved to Switzerland to get away from the annoying, intrusive press and photographers who wouldn’t leave her alone. No offense.”
“None taken.”
“And just because a woman is alone doesn’t mean she’s lonely,” Gwen added, needing to believe that for herself. “Scarlett had her most productive songwriting years in Switzerland, especially that final year. She was pouring her heart and soul into her work. She was busy creatingup until the very end. I doubt she would have wanted to be confined to a kitchen, washing dishes and doing laundry for a man who went out into the world, doing his own thing. Not unless he was supportive of her doing her thing, which not all men would have been back then. It was a different time.”
Gwen regarded Peter steadily across the table, her pulse beating with an intense drive to discover the answer to the burning question: Did Scarlett die happy? Fulfilled? Or was she forever afflicted with grief over the loss of her child?
Their dinner arrived, and Gwen took a whiff of her rainbow trout, served with jasmine rice and poached parsnips. The waitress offered fresh-ground pepper.
She and Peter chatted about other things while they ate, and afterward, when the waitress came to clear the table, Peter got up to visit the restroom. While he was gone, Gwen picked up her phone and checked her emails. She scrolled through the most recent unread messages and saw a reply from Douglas Warren, the museum curator in Valdez. She tapped the message and began to read.
Dear Ms.Hollingsworth,
Regarding your inquiry about the young man in the photograph, I am delighted to report that I heard back from a woman in town who remembers him. I have a name for you and some additional information that you might find useful. Give me a call and I’ll relay it to you.
He provided his phone number at the museum, and Gwen immediately checked the time. It was 8:15 p.m. in Nova Scotia—therefore only 3:15 in Alaska. He was probably still at his desk.
Peter returned to the table and sat down. “Fancy a dessert?”
“No,” Gwen replied hastily. “Let’s just get the bill.”
“Okay.” He regarded her with uncertainty.
Gwen signaled to the server. “I just got an email from the museum curator in Valdez, and he has a name for us.”
“No kidding.”
She passed her phone across the table. “Read his note. We can call him as soon as we leave here.”
The waitress brought the bill, and Peter insisted on paying. Then they walked out of the restaurant and stepped into the radiant pink glow of the sunset. Outdoor tables, lit with candles, stood on stone patios beneath vine-covered trellises. There was a low murmur of laughter and conversation.
“This is a great spot,” Peter said, stopping to look. “You must come here a lot.”
“I do, mostly because I live just over there, on the other side of the vineyard.” She pointed. “I walked here.”
Peter turned toward the grapevines, silhouetted against the purple sky. The moon was just beginning its rise. “I can drive you home if you like, since it’s getting dark.”
“Not necessary,” Gwen replied. “I’ve crossed this vineyard a hundred times in the dark. I’ll use the flashlight on my phone.”
