This Place of Wonder (35)

“Maybe,” Deborah says. “But not right now. Don’t make any decisions for at least a few months. All you have to do right now is stay sober.”

The phrase sweeps away about 85 percent of my anxiety, giving me space to take a breath. One thing: stay sober. I don’t have to solve any other problems right now. “Thank you.”

“Call me tomorrow.”

I hang up and text her a big care emoji, then tuck my phone in my pocket and clamber over the rocky division between two beaches, the place I got stuck the other day. Rory and I spent hours and hours on this beach, walking, talking about our big dreams, boys we had crushes on, assignments in class, and places we wanted to travel. In the end, she chose to stay close to home, while I wandered the vineyards of the world.

As I reach the top of the rocks, I see the sandy stretch on the other side. A man is doing slow movements in the lowering sun. Light the color of persimmons washes over his face and arms, and I pause to watch, recognizing Ayaz only as his movements turn him my direction again. He’s deeply focused, hands in stylized positions, arms slow and deliberate. It’s powerful and beautiful. I rest where I am until he finishes, then step down on the sand. He gives me a nod, not exactly smiling or not smiling. “Hello again.”

“Hello. What was that you were doing?”

“Tai chi.”

“Isn’t that for old people?”

“Not at all. It’s one arm of kung fu.”

My stomach is roiling again, and I swallow, nodding. “Do you—” I have to turn and run toward the water, where I barf up the contents of my belly. And again. And again, until I’m leaning on my knees, breathing in slowly.

Ayaz offers me a bottle of water. “I haven’t opened it.”

The nausea is settling, and I drink some water, spit, and drink again. “I’m so sorry. That was embarrassing.”

“Not at all.”

We move away from the water, washing our feet farther along. “Are you all right now?”

I nod. “Thanks. I did some damage to my stomach with my drinking, I think. It’s just taking time to heal.”

“Would you like a cup of ginger tea?”

I look up at his kind, dark eyes. “Yes, actually. That sounds amazing.”

This time, there is an actual smile, very small, around the edges of his mouth. “Good. Come.”

I follow him up the stairs. A house looms over us, all glass and wood, an aggressive show of wealth that Meadow hates. My father always mildly commented, “To each his own,” and I felt the same way. Why did the houses all have to be the same? What new thing will someone build in the future over here?

“Here we are,” Ayaz says, unlocking the heavy gate with a key and pushing it inward. “Sorry about that. We had a lot of trouble with paparazzi.”

He allows me to pass into a fenced garden with a pool. The space smells of roses and jasmine, as if I’ve wandered into a fairy tale or the Arabian nights. I suddenly feel faint and refocus on the conversation. “Paparazzi,” I repeat. “Intriguing.”

“Not really. They’re parasites and ruined my life for a time.”

“Your wife must be quite famous.”

“She was,” he says. “Now she’s dead.”

I’m taken aback and it must show on my face, because he adds, “I’m sorry. That sounds far more harsh than I meant it. Only that fame and life are fleeting, and the focus of those little armies of photographers is a very foolish pursuit.” He locks the gate and gestures for me to follow him across the garden and into an anteroom, then up a set of stairs with three landings, which leads us finally to the main floor.

“Oh wow,” I say. The room is open to a wall of glass two stories high, showing miles of water and shoreline. I’m drawn across the room as if by a siren, standing close to the glass to look and look and look. Below, the restless surf, in the distance the lowering sun and horizon. Something in me quiets. “It feels like floating, like you’re a bird.”

“Yes.”

The kitchen is situated toward the back of the room, with a big island and gleaming white walls and counters, as clean as a clinic, and I join him, sitting on a comfortable bar chair upholstered in white leather.

“Ginger or mint?” he asks. The kettle is on. His hair boasts a glossy shine, the sign of health, and now that I have time to look at him, I see that his body is lean, his waist small. He’s not much taller than me, but every inch is well made. A distant, almost forgotten part of my body stirs. Remember? it whispers.

“This is not the kitchen I would put you in,” I say.

He looks around. “It’s very white.”

I smile. “I ran a winery,” I offer. “The blending rooms were like this. All stainless and pure cleanliness.”

“What sort of kitchen would be a better setting for me, do you say?”

“Hmm. Something older, maybe. With more color?”

He nods, a faint smile on his lips. “That would be my preference.”

“Older, or more color?”

“I’d like an old house,” he says. “Edwardian. With an AGA.”

“An AGA,” I echo. “What color?”

“Oh, something blue, perhaps.” He gathers a cutting board, a knife, a knob of ginger that looks fresh and hearty. “A winery,” he says, inclining his head. “Not anymore?”