During the night, a writhing mass of storm clouds gathered over the Pacific and headed our way. In Cal Anderson Park, no suffocating heat greeted the morning dog walkers. No brightness blinded the joggers. The ice cream vendors slept in. “Relief on the Way,” the Seattle Times announced. Noting the shift in the weather, Archibald Wattles ended his Hawaiian shirt spree. He stood in the foyer in a crisp linen shirt and a pair of jeans, a whisk in his hands. He always made his gravy ahead of time, then reheated it with drippings from the roast just before serving Sunday dinner. “Wanda, you look gorgeous,” he said as Mrs. Bobot twirled two times, the ruffle at her dress’s hem rippling. She’d matched the royal blue dress with a pair of royal blue shoes. “I made it,” she said. “I don’t suppose you know that blue is William’s favorite color?” Archibald asked slyly. Mrs. Bobot blushed. I listened to the conversation while crouched behind my apartment door, peering through a crack barely big enough to notice.
