This Place of Wonder (25)

The past tense is stark. I don’t know how to respond, and the sound of the sea rises between us. Finally, I say, “Do you? Love it?”

His fingers are laced together, forearms resting on his knees. He looks out to the sea, shakes his head. “No.”

“I love my dad’s house,” I volunteer. “I grew up there.”

“But?”

I watch four pelicans ride air currents high above us. “I hadn’t spoken to him in years. It feels wrong to take the house.”

“I see.” He looks at me. His face is long, dominated by large dark eyes, and I think he must be a decade or more older than me. “Do you suppose he’d want you to have it anyway?”

The question pushes some button, and I have to look toward the distance to let the emotion recede. It hasn’t left my voice when I answer. “I don’t know,” I say, and let that hang in the air.

Then I tell the truth. It’s a muscle that’s hard to use when you haven’t bothered for so many years. “Yes.”

He nods.

A wave splatters us lightly and I shiver. “I wonder if I should just go back.”

“I am considering the same thing.” He inclines his head. “Did I see you at the coffee shop yesterday? Are you going to work there?”

I look at him, but he doesn’t look familiar. “Were you there?” He looks off to the sea, and his nose in profile reminds me—the Irrfan Khan look-alike. Up close, the resemblance is not so pronounced, but he does have the same large dark eyes, the sad mouth. “Wait. I do remember. You were sitting by the window, not working on your open computer.”

This wins a half-hearted smile. He tosses a rock toward the water. “Yes. That is unfortunately the story of my days—not working.”

“What are you not working on?”

“A novel.”

“Really.” I look toward the house on the cliff. “You must be a very successful writer to live in that house.”

“It was my wife’s. She was an actress.”

I’m intrigued, drawn in by the pearlescent details he brings out. “Hmm. Does that mean you met on set? Are you famous, Mr. Not Working?”

“No. We met because she wanted to make the movie of one of my novels, but it never came to fruition.”

“Now you have to tell me your name.”

He meets my gaze. A lock of hair falls in his eye. “Ayaz.”

I repeat it, to remember. “Ayaz.”

“And what am I to call you?”

I take in a breath, feeling the freshness all through my lungs, and let it go. I think of oysters and grit. “Call me Maya.”

“All right, Maya.” He eyes the water, creeping ever higher. “I believe I shall now make my escape. And so should you.”

We stand, and just for a minute, I don’t want to turn away. Something about his sadness draws me in.

But I lift a hand. “See you around, Ayaz.”



My bare feet make wet marks across the patio, and I smell something baking as I push open the door. Meadow is awake. She’s playing light Celtic music through the Bluetooth speakers, and her hair is swept up into a messy bun. I see gray streaks in the hair of her nape. “Good morning,” she calls, busily chopping. “Did you work up an appetite?”

“I thought you’d left,” I say, and point to the bowl on the counter. “I was going to make artichokes.”

“For breakfast?”

“Why not?”

“It’s too early for local artichokes. They must be imported from Mexico,” she comments. “Sorry, not judging. Just observing.”

Snapping annoyance rises up my spine. As if he knows it, Cosmo rockets out of the salon and dives into my ankles, all squishy adorability, and looks up at me with the worshipful gaze only a dog can offer. His little mouth smiles widely. What can I do? I bend down and scoop him up, kissing his nose as he wiggles and licks my face. Irritation subsides. “Rory and I were talking about the elaborate scheme Dad set up to get us to eat artichokes, and I got a heavy craving.”

“Your dad didn’t do that,” she says, slicing a chunk of cheese from a block and handing it to me, high above Cosmo’s eager nose. “I did.”

I break off a tiny bit of cheese and give it to him, popping the rest in my mouth.

“You shouldn’t feed him anything except in his bowl,” Meadow says.

“Right. I notice how well you follow that rule.”

She shrugs.

The easy green globes of artichokes gleam in their blue bowl. “I mean, yes, you grew the artichokes, but Dad was all about making it into this big thing.”

“Nope.” Calmly, she scores an orange. “It was my idea.”

I feel a ping somewhere in my body, a recognition, and I pause, reaching back through time to find the memories. The fenced garden, the way my father teased us with the adult nature of artichokes. Meadow is nowhere, but that’s impossible. “You have to be right,” I exclaim. “My dad never grew a single thing in his life. Why do I remember him at the middle of it?”

A small, wistful smile touches her mouth. “Because he was Augustus, I suppose.”

Cosmo squirms to get down and I let him go, glancing toward the doors that lead to the pool, which are closed. “Yeah.”