The first two years of their marriage, Alvis had got her a new Chevy from his dealership every six months. This year, though, she’d said it was unnecessary; she’d just keep the Corvair. And now it had some kind of starter problem: of course. She thought about calling Trader Vic’s, but it was only ten or twelve blocks, almost a straight shot down Fifth. She could take the Monorail. But when she got outside, she decided to walk instead. Alvis would be angry—one thing he hated about Seattle was its “scummy downtown,” a bit of which she’d have to walk through—but she thought a walk might clear her mind after that awful business with Ron.
She walked briskly, her umbrella pointed forward into the stinging mist. As she walked, she imagined all the things she should have said to Ron （Yes, Alvis IS the love of my life）。 She replayed his cutting words （You use people . . . treat them like they’re nothing）。 She’d used similar words, on her first date with Alvis, to describe the film business. She’d returned to Seattle to find it a different city, buzzing with promise. It had seemed so small to her before, but maybe she had been shrunk by all that happened in Italy, returning beaten to a city that basked in the glow of the World’s Fair; even her old theater chums enjoyed a new playhouse on the fairgrounds. Dee stayed away from the fair, and from the theater, the way she avoided seeing Cleopatra when it came out （reading and reveling, a little shamefully, in its bad reviews）; she moved in with her sister to “lick her wounds,” as Darlene aptly described it. Dee assumed she’d give the baby up for adoption, but Darlene talked her into keeping it. Dee told her family that the baby’s father was an Italian innkeeper, and it was that lie that gave her the idea to name the baby after Pasquale. When Pat was three months old, Debra went back to work at Frederick and Nelson, in the Men’s Grill, and she was filling a customer’s ginger ale when she looked up one day to see a familiar man, tall, thin, and handsome, a slight stoop to his shoulders, a burst of gray at his temples. It took a minute to recognize him—Alvis Bender, Pasquale’s friend. “Dee Moray,” he said.
“Your mustache is gone,” she said, and then, “It’s Debra now. Debra Moore.”
“I’m sorry, Debra,” Alvis said, and sat down at the counter. He told her that his father was looking at buying a car dealership in Seattle and he’d sent Alvis out west to scout it.
It was strange bumping into Alvis in Seattle. Italy now seemed like a kind of interrupted dream for her; to see someone from that time was like déjà vu, like encountering a fictional character on the street. But he was charming and easy to talk to, and she found it a relief to be with someone who knew her whole story. She realized that lying to everyone about what had happened had been like holding her breath for the last year.
They had dinner, drinks. Alvis was funny and she felt comfortable immediately with him. His father’s car dealerships were thriving, and that was nice, too, being with a man who could clearly take care of himself. He kissed her cheek at the door to her apartment.
The next day, Alvis came by the lunch counter again, and said that he needed to admit something: it was no accident that he’d found her. She’d told him about herself in those last days in Italy—they had taken a boat together to La Spezia and he’d accompanied her on the train to the Rome airport—and that she figured she’d go back to Seattle. To do what? Alvis had asked. She’d shrugged and said that she used to work at a big Seattle department store, thought maybe she’d go back. So when his father mentioned that he was looking at a Seattle Chevy dealership, Alvis jumped at the chance to find her.
He’d tried other department stores—the Bon Marché and Rhodes of Seattle—before someone at the perfume counter at Frederick and Nelson said there was a tall, blond girl named Debra who used to be an actress.
“So, you came all the way to Seattle . . . just to find me?”
“We are looking at a dealership here. But, yes, I was hoping to see you.” He looked around the lunch counter. “Do you remember, in Italy, you said you liked my book and I said I was having trouble finishing it? Do you remember what you said—‘Maybe it’s finished. Maybe that’s all there is’ ?”
“Oh, I wasn’t saying—”
“No, no,” he interrupted her. “It’s okay. I hadn’t written anything new in five years anyway. I just kept rewriting the same chapter. But you saying that, it was like giving me permission to admit that it’s all I had to say—that one chapter—and to go on with my life.” He smiled. “I didn’t go back to Italy this year. I think I’m done with all that. I’m ready to do something else.”