This Place of Wonder (51)

“I will in a minute, okay?”

They dash back to the project. Rory stands by the table, one hand over her middle, looking winded. Her eyelids are puffy and red, making her pale-gold eyelashes disappear, and I reach out to pull her into me, hugging her hard. “I miss him, too. The world feels so quiet.”

“Yes,” she gasps, and tears fall on my neck. “I feel like someone unplugged something inside of me.”

We rock together a long time, until I feel the tension in her body start to ease. I release her, and she sinks into a chair. I pour us both limeade, and pass her a cookie studded with M&M’S. “It does get better in time.”

“I don’t want it to. I’m afraid I’m going to forget things. Details, you know? Like, I can’t remember the back of his hands. Why didn’t I ever look at them?”

“You won’t forget the important things.” I take a sip of pale-green liquid, and it’s as refreshing as a plunge into a deep pool. “This is really good.”

“Thanks. Simple syrup cuts the sharpness of the lime.” As if she’s remembering she has needs, too, she lifts her own glass, and takes a vast swallow. “Oh, that’s a really good one. I think I might try adding some basil.”

“That would be a great mocktail.”

“Ah, yeah. It would be.” She drinks again and picks up her cookies, picking out a red M&M. “I don’t think Maya was very comfortable with us drinking the other day. I mean, I didn’t drink while she was here, but Nathan drank beer. I felt bad about it afterward.”

“The world is full of booze, all the time, everywhere,” I say. “Maybe it would be nice for her to have places that are alcohol-free.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking.” She nibbles her cookies. “After she was at P&P yesterday, she came over here. She’s pretty freaked out.”

“I know. The timing is really terrible, but the law doesn’t care that she was at rehab. Either she sells it or we move forward, and it’s hard to know which is which until we see what happens without Augustus at the helm.”

Her cheeks are dewy and flushed, and tendrils of red-gold hair have escaped her messy bun. So beautiful, and thanks to the stabilizing, steady father figure Augustus provided, she’s remarkably sane. His efforts to become the kind of father a girl needed paid off in this one.

“Can I be honest?” she asks.

“Please.”

“I think it’s done, the restaurant. It’s been losing glory for a long time, and without Dad—” She shrugs. “I can’t even imagine what’s there without him.”

“That’s a valid point,” I say, but I feel resistance in my gut. Hard resistance. “It needs updating, a fresh menu, better marketing.” Emotion thickens my throat. “I can’t bear for it to close. It would be like erasing him.”

“I get it. But we also have to think about what’s best for Maya.”

“Totally agree, but she also can’t go back to making wine. She needs something else to do.”

“Maybe you should let her figure that out.”

“I know.”

She raises an eyebrow.

I drink. “I really do.”

We sit in silence then, the girls chattering over where to place a road. In the distance, a dog barks. Nemo and Elvis raise their heads to see if they need to chime in. A breeze softens the day, bringing with it a scent of dryer sheets. My daughter blows her nose. A plane crosses the sky.

All of it evidence of the world relentlessly, heartlessly moving on without Augustus Beauvais.



It isn’t until I’m back at the farm, putting things away, that I find the thick packet Augustus left for Maya in my purse. It gives me a pang of guilt that I still haven’t handed it over. I must remember to give it to her tomorrow, even if I’m not sure it’s the best thing for her sobriety.

Being back at the farm leaves me restless, wandering. Lonely. I built the house when Augustus and I divorced, a consolation for the loss of Belle l’été and my marriage. It’s a lovely thing, with big open rooms and a kitchen straight out of Martha Stewart Living magazine, with a big island topped by an antique butcher block, and a massive range. Big multipaned windows open to views of the fields and the roses I’ve planted everywhere.

Augustus haunts these rooms far more than the rooms at Belle l’été. I haven’t lived there in nearly a decade, and once Norah arrived, I didn’t stop by very often.

In the early years after our divorce, Augustus spent little time in this house—he’d come inside only three or four times, despite how often he drove up to talk plantings for the next season at the restaurant or to claim a pig.

When Maya went to rehab and we fell to each other for comfort, our love affair started anew. He was here nearly every day, cooking with me at the island late at night, making love to me in my enormous bed, telling me about his days. Together we put together packages for Maya, and grieved over her terrible predicament. I don’t know what Norah thought was happening. It occurs to me now that she must have been lonely, waiting for him to come home to that big, empty house.

Through my open windows comes the sound of crickets, and the eternal, endless perfection of it splits me open. How many summers have crickets been singing? A million? Ten million? How can they simply offer it up every night, over and over and over?