This Place of Wonder (36)

“No.” I suck my top lip into my mouth, debate telling the truth. But what the hell. I have to be real with who I am. “I’m afraid I’m fresh from rehab. Wineries are out of the question for me now.”

It startles him, but he doesn’t look away. “I’m sorry.”

The simple expression somehow slides through my defenses, and I feel a sudden, ridiculous swell of tears. The fact that I’ve lost the thing I genuinely loved in all this gets lost sometimes, but I did love making wine. I was great at it. A roar of loss sounds in the distance, and I swallow. “Thanks.”

“I’ve never drunk alcohol,” he says, “so I am not sure what you feel, but it must be difficult to lose such a business.”

“I mean, I guess.” I take a breath. “I was so bloody tired by the end that I would have done almost anything to stop.”

Again those soft, accepting eyes. Into a saucepan he grates fresh ginger. His fingers are long, tipped with oval nails. He leaves space for me to talk, which is unbelievably rare. When I don’t speak, he asks, “How long have you been out?”

“Three days,” I say, and laugh at my newbie status. “I was in for almost ninety days.”

“And how do you feel?”

I take a moment to consider. “Pretty good, honestly. Sleep is hard to come by and I can’t shake my Jelly Belly habit, but . . .” I shrug. “All things considered, I’m better.”

He smiles. “That’s good.”

“It is.”

He places a small plate on the counter and shakes some rice crackers onto it.

I pluck one up and taste it. “Why don’t you drink?”

“I was raised in a Muslim family and neighborhood. Never saw the point, really.” He rinses his fingers. “Why did you drink?”

I meet his gaze. His heavy, dark brows are slightly lifted, his mouth turned up slightly in a faint smile. “I guess that’s a valid question.” I shrug. “I don’t really know. Everyone drinks, don’t they?”

“You don’t. I don’t.”

“True.” I switch directions, suddenly weary of my only topic of thought or discussion revolving around my drinking or not drinking. “I didn’t google you, by the way.”

“You don’t know my whole name, do you?”

“Oh please. I could have your real name in three minutes flat.”

“Really?” He sounds genuinely surprised.

“You’re kidding, right?” I pull out my phone, about to demonstrate, but he reaches over the island and touches my hand. Shakes his head. Intrigued, I tuck the phone back in my pocket. “Okay. But it’s kind of surprising that you wouldn’t know that.”

“I’m an analog sort of man.” His smile is wry.

“Ah.”

The water begins to boil. He takes the kettle off the burner and pours it into a pot, then adds loose tea. The scent of ginger rises sharply. My stomach growls. Loudly.

I hope he hasn’t heard. He says nothing, but reaches for a dish on the counter and passes it over. “Dates,” he says.

“Mmm. Perfect.” They are very fresh and fill my mouth with a density of flavor I never remember noticing before. “My God, these are good.”

“Perhaps you’re simply hungry.”

“Maybe, I mean, considering.”

He laughs softly, and there is something in the sound that washes through me, a sense of quiet. “I don’t have anything interesting, but I roasted a chicken last night that I would be happy to share.”

“Thank you, but I’ve imposed enough.”

“I insist.”

I’m tempted. He has such kind eyes and a voice that flows along my nerves like some magic elixir. I’d rather be here than with Meadow, who is no doubt bustling around the kitchen making some fabulous supper. “That’s kind,” I begin my refusal, and then my mouth says, “Roast chicken sounds great.”

He smiles.



We eat at a table by the big window, looking out toward the twilight ocean. The meal is simple, just roast chicken and roast carrots with a spice I’m not familiar with. “Za’atar,” he says, nudging a dish of yogurt toward me. It’s some of the best food I’ve had in months, the chicken perfectly tender, the carrots sublime, the ginger tea a perfect accompaniment.

I’m so hungry that I eat like a teenager, spreading butter on fresh bread, devouring the chicken. “Did you cook all of this food? It’s amazing.”

“Thank you. It’s simple fare, honestly.” He butters a slice of bread himself. Again I notice his beautiful hands—the hands of an artist or a surgeon or a pianist. “Do you like to cook?”

“A person could not grow up in the house I did without learning to love cooking. Both my father and stepmother are serious foodies.” I realize what I’ve done, and a startling, cold wash of grief splashes through me. “I guess that’s ‘were’ now,” I say, and to my horror, tears well up behind my eyes. I look down to blink them away. “Sorry,” I say, clearing my throat.

He raises a hand. “It is very fresh.”

“We weren’t close.”

“As you said. But a father is a father nonetheless.”