This Is Not How It Ends(43)

The backyard looked straight out of a magazine. The teak deck showcased a black-bottom infinity pool that appeared to rest over the water. Towering palms sprouted from the ground, their leafy arms fanning across the sky. My mouth dropped open, and Jimmy seemed proud to be taking me on this journey. “I’d never leave here, Jimmy. Ever.” A glorious sun cast a shimmery veil of orange and gold over the property, and I tipped my face up, basking in the warmth.

“Watch this,” Jimmy said, making his way down a winding path. I followed him past the pale-pink and white plumeria until we reached a pocket of sand by the water surrounded by cushioned lounges. At its center was a firepit. “I’m not allowed to use it unless Daddy’s home,” he said.

I settled in one of the chairs and took in the view. Jimmy took the empty seat beside me.

“Will you play a game with me?” he asked.

I jumped at the chance to foster the connection to this lonely boy, and we played cards for over two hours. Spit, Go Fish—and he surprised me with his knack for poker. “This is the clubhouse, Charlotte. I told you.” He said this as he clobbered me with a royal flush.

Satisfied with his win, Jimmy dropped the cards on the table and lay his small frame against the oversize chair. A moment passed before he gathered his thoughts. “I don’t feel her.” And before I could respond, he added, “You said I’d feel her.”

I regretted the conversation. Jimmy was too young to understand, and I felt responsible for his anguish. But it was someone else who was eyeballing me with displeasure.

“Jimmy,” Ben said, “get yourself washed up. I’m going to make dinner.”

I stood up, embarrassed at how casually I had lain across his furniture. “No pizza?”

“Slow night,” he said, but I guessed it had something to do with the date. “Come inside.” I followed him, this time through floor-to-ceiling glass doors that led to the living room. A dusty gloom settled around us, and I had to let him know how sorry I was.

“What are you sorry for?” He was barefoot, heading toward the bar. He must’ve changed before he found us downstairs, because he was in jeans and a white polo. Pouring himself a drink, he finished the golden liquid in one gulp.

“I’m sorry she’s not here.”

He pulled back on the second drink and caught my eyes in his. Their depth made it impossible to turn away. “Do you want to stay? I can show you how to make the best coq au vin you’ve ever tasted.”

“Thanks, but I’m going to head out. Sunny’s probably hungry, and I think it’s best if you two are alone.”

He attempted a smile. It wasn’t a convincing one, but enough to make me think he’d forgiven me, or whatever it was that was bothering him had passed. “What I’ll serve you is far better, and safer, than anything you’ll cook up. And we’ll let Sunny have a bite, too.” It was there. A subtle glint in his eye. And I couldn’t say no.



We entered the kitchen, and I watched him intently, how he carefully sliced the mushrooms and sprinkled the onion and garlic. He was a sensory person; he could navigate through the kitchen by touching, tasting, breathing the ingredients.

“Jimmy’s the same way with his talent, though he gets his skill from his mother. She was an incredible artist.”

“I bet he inherited the best of both of you.”

Ben was a patient teacher. I had always been most comfortable with directions like “remove from plastic and place in the microwave 20–25 minutes.” He encouraged me to close my eyes and absorb the flavors. We practiced techniques, and he guided me on the proper way to chop the vegetables and brown the chicken, setting aside a separate helping for Sunny. How I wished I had taken the time to share this experience with my mother. “I’m nervous,” I told him, hesitating to pour too much Burgundy into the pan.

“Trust your instinct.”

Despite his efforts, I didn’t have his self-assurance, the essential gift for a gourmet. He came up from behind me and placed his hand over mine. “Relax,” he said as we together gently added the wine. It was the moment Jimmy entered the kitchen, and I quickly stepped away from Ben, letting him finish the pour.

“Are you staying for dinner, Charlotte?” Jimmy asked.

“Actually, I probably should go,” I said, feeling suddenly out of place.

Ben seemed composed, standing over the coq au vin, the rich smells filling the kitchen. “You can’t ditch the best part of the cooking lesson, Charlotte. The reward.”



Long after we finished the delicious meal, and long after Jimmy went to bed, Ben and I took our seats on the back patio. He’d finished a bottle of wine, and I’d nursed my one glass. I marveled at the change I saw in him—from the kitchen, to the table he shared with his son, to being alone with a woman. His confidence had waned, his mood faded, and he’d shut down. Food and its creation had kept him occupied. Answering Jimmy’s no less than a million questions kept him on track. But the awkward silence that followed was uncomfortably loud.

On an ordinary night, I’d have thanked him graciously and left. Tonight was not ordinary. Outside, the moon was suspended over the water, and the glow spread for miles. Our conversation was strained and superficial. Without buffers, we scrambled for things to say. When I gushed over Jimmy’s artwork, this seemed to pull Ben from his mind. “He hasn’t touched the easel since we got here. I thought he would. I set everything up . . . the canvas, the brushes. He won’t go near it.”