J. Jance - Betrayal of Trust

I was sitting on the window seat of our penthouse unit in Belltown Terrace when Mel came back from her run. Dripping with sweat, she nodded briefly on her way to the shower and left me in peace with my coffee cup and the online version of the New York Times crossword. Since it was Monday, I finished it within minutes and turned my attention to the spectacular Olympic Mountains view to the west.

It was June. After months of mostly gray days, summer had come early to western Washington. Often the hot weather holds off until after drowning out the Fourth of July fireworks. Not this year. It was only mid-June, and the online weather report said it might get all the way to the mid-eighties by late afternoon.

People in other parts of the country might laugh at the idea of mid-eighties temperatures clocking in as a heat wave, but in Seattle, where the humidity is high and AC units are few, a long June afternoon of sun can be sweltering, especially since the sun doesn’t disappear from the sky until close to 10:00 P.M.

I remember those long miserable hot summer nights when I was a kid, when my mother-a single mother-and I lived in a second-story one-bedroom apartment in a blue-collar Seattle neighborhood called Ballard. We didn’t have AC and there was a bakery on the floor below us. Having a bakery and all those ovens running was great in the winter, but in the summer not so much. I would lie there on the couch in the living room, sleepless and miserable, hoping for a tiny breath of breeze to waft in through our lace curtains. It wasn’t until I was in high school and earning my own money by working as an usher in a local theater that I managed to give my mom a pair of fans for Mother’s Day-one for her and one for me. (At least I didn’t give her a baseball glove.)

I refilled my coffee cup and poured one for Mel. She grew up as an army brat. Evidently the base housing hot water heaters were often less than optimal. As a result she takes some of the fastest showers known to man. She collected her coffee from the kitchen and was back in the living room before the coffee came close to reaching drinking temperature. Wearing a silky robe that left nothing to the imagination and with a towel wrapped around her wet hair, she curled up at the opposite end of the window seat and joined me in examining the busy shipping traffic crisscrossing Elliott Bay.

A grain ship was slowly pulling away from the massive terminal at the bottom of Queen Anne Hill. Two ferries, one going and one coming, made their lumbering way to and from Bremerton or Bainbridge Island. They were large ships, but from our perch twenty-two stories up, they seemed like tiny toy boats. Over near West Seattle, a collection of barges was being assembled in advance of heading off to Alaska. Nearer at hand, a many-decked cruise ship had docked overnight, spilling a myriad of shopping-intent cruise enthusiasts into our Denny Regrade neighborhood.

“How was your run?” I asked.

“Hot and crowded,” Mel said. “Myrtle Edwards Park was teeming with runners off the cruise ships. I don’t like running in crowds. That’s why I don’t do marathons.”

I had another reason for not doing marathons-two of them, actually-my knees. Mel runs. I walk, or as she says, I “saunter.” Really, it’s more limping than anything else. I finally broke down and had surgery to remove my heel spurs, but then my knees went south. It’s hell getting old. I talked to Dr. Bliss, my GP, about the situation with my knees.

“Yes,” he said, “you’ll need knee replacement surgery eventually, but we’re not there yet.”

Obviously he was using the royal “we,” because if it was his knee situation instead of mine, I’m sure “we’d” have had it done by now.

I glanced at my watch. “We need to leave in about twenty, if we’re going to make it across the water before traffic stops up.”

Since we were sitting looking out at an expanse of water, it would be easy to think that’s the water I meant when I spoke to Mel, but it wasn’t. In Seattle, that term refers to several different bodies of water, depending on where you are at the time and where you’re going. In this case we were looking at Elliott Bay, which happens to be our water view, but we work on the other side of Lake Washington, in this instance, the “traffic” water in question. People who live on Lake Washington or on Lake Sammamish would have an entirely different take on the matter when they used the same two words. Context is everything.

“Okeydokey,” Mel said, hopping off the window seat. “Another refill?” she asked.

I gave her my coffee mug. She took it, went to the kitchen, filled it, and came back. She handed me the cup and gave me a quick kiss in the process. “I started a new pot for our travelers,” she said, then added, “Back in a flash.”

I had showered and dressed while she was out, not that I needed to. There are two full baths as well as a powder room in our unit. When I married Mel, rather than share mine, she took over the guest bath and made it her own, complete with all the mysterious vials of makeup and moisturizers she deems necessary to keep herself presentable. I happen to think Mel is more than presentable without any of that stuff, but I’ve gathered enough wisdom over the years to realize that my opinion on some subjects is neither requested nor appreciated.

So we split the bathrooms. As long as we share the bed in my room, I don’t have a problem with that. Occasionally I find myself wondering about my first marriage to Karen, who is now deceased. Most of the time we were married, we had two bathrooms-one for us and one for the kids. Would our lives have been smoother if Karen and I had been able to have separate bathrooms as well?

No, wait. Denial is a wonderful thing, and I’m going to call myself on it. Despite my pretense to the contrary, the warfare that occurred in Karen’s and my bathroom usually had nothing to do with the bathroom itself. Karen was a drama queen and I was a jerk, for starters. Yes, we did battle over changing the toilet paper rolls and leaving the toilet seat up and hanging panty hose on the shower curtain rod and leaving clots of toothpaste in the single sink, but those were merely symptoms of what was really wrong with our marriage-namely, my drinking and my working too much. All the squabbling in our bathroom-the only real private place in the house-was generally about those underlying issues rather than the ones we claimed we were fighting about.

For years, Karen and I never showed up at the kitchen table for breakfast without having spent the better part of an hour railing at each other first. I’m sure those constant verbal battles were very hard on our kids, and I regret them to this day. But I have to tell you that the pleasant calmness that prevails in my life with Mel Soames is nothing short of a dream come true.

Don’t let the different last names fool you. Mel is my third wife. She didn’t take my name, and I didn’t take hers. As for the single day Anne Corley’s and my marriage lasted? She didn’t take my name, either, so I’m two for one in the wives-keeping-their-own-names department. Karen evidently didn’t mind changing names at all-she took mine, and later, when she married Dave Livingston, her second husband, she took his name as well. So much for the high and low points of J. P. Beaumont’s checkered romantic past.

When the coffeepot-an engineering marvel straight out of Starbucks-beeped quietly to let me know it was done, I went out to the kitchen and poured most of the pot into our two hefty stainless-steel traveling mugs. This is Seattle. We don’t go anywhere or do anything without sufficient amounts of coffee plugged into the system.