This Place of Wonder (58)

I nod, secreting the answer away. A strangely named town near Chico. That I can work with.

“Is there anything I can do for you before I take off?”

“No. Thanks, Norah. I appreciate your help.”

“No problem. See you afterwhile.”





Chapter Twenty-Six


Meadow


On Sunday morning, I am teased out of bed by light spilling into my bedroom from the east. In all the fuss and drama of the past couple of weeks, I forgot how much I love this place, a house I built for myself with my own money, exactly what I most wanted. It’s not huge, but it’s reminiscent of a house I used to see in my childhood, a farmhouse with porches and long double-hung windows. A place to be happy.

My house.

Windows line both the east and north walls of my bedroom, and gauzy linen curtains float on the breezes. The floors are wide pine planks. Elvis and the cats sleep with me in the big soft bed with more pillows than three people could reasonably use.

I sleep in pajamas these days, something that makes me feel old, but also gives me a tremendous amount of pleasure. When I was married, my sleeping attire was nightgowns designed for attractiveness, with straps and lace and all sorts of uncomfortable things, and I’m not sorry to lose them. I do wonder why the hell I spent so many years not pleasing myself in the first place, but that’s a thought for another day. I pad over to the window to look out over the fields, or at least the portion I can see from here, which are the strawberries covered with netting, and the edge of the herbs. If the wind is right, I can smell a wild mix of sage or dill or whatever else is being most prolific.

This morning, the light is a deep reddish gold, and my stomach drops. Only smoke makes the air that color. I open the window wider, but I can’t smell anything. I look out the windows to the north and can’t see the source. Picking up my phone, I ask it to show me the fire map of California. A map with red dots comes up and I click on it. So many for so early in the season!

Zooming in, I see one large red dot to the northeast. It’s almost fifty miles away in the San Rafael Mountains. I look at the haze in the sky, thinking it must be a big one. When they get going in the high mountains, it’s hard to get them under control, all those ravines and cliffs and impassable forests.

We’ve had several big fires up near Ojai the past few years, and we all have varying levels of PTSD over that particular color of light and the scent of burning in the air. Still, this one is a long way off. The farm is safe.

I shower and dress, winding my hair into a braid to keep it off my neck in the heat, and head for the fields with a cup of coffee. It’s a good practice to lay eyes on the plants regularly, see if there are bugs eating too much, or leaves going yellow or spotted. I have managers who do it full-time, but I still enjoy it. It’s peaceful and centering, walking between rows of crops, hearing workers trading conversations in sibilant Spanish, water running, honeybees and slow, heavy bumblebees bouncing from plant to plant to fertilize everything. The sun on my arms is warm even so early, and I make a note—it’s going to be a very hot day.

These fields, this work, went a long way toward healing the broken parts of me, at first the girlhood wounds that I carried with me, then later the wrenching grief over Augustus’s betrayal, and last, when Maya fell so hard and we feared we would lose her to her addiction.

I wander through the oregano and rosemary down to the start of the garlic. It’s starting to sprout scapes, the curling buds that have to be removed in order for the garlic to develop its full size, and I break one off to smell, crushing the tiny seed bulbs within to set free a robust fragrance. A dozen possible recipe ideas rush through my mind. How can anyone not like garlic? But I know people who don’t.

The heirloom garlics we farm here are almost entirely Augustus’s doing. He had a dozen garlic specialties, and made a particularly fabulous soup with the scapes, fresh vegetables, and Parmesan rinds. It was hearty and healthy and I suddenly wish I could ask him to prepare me a pot. I wonder if I know the recipe well enough to make it myself.

I feel myself settling into calm. So of course the first bombshell of the day arrives with a ring of my phone. “Meadow speaking,” I say, adjusting my earphones.

“This is Norah Rivera,” she says. “I need to let you know something.”

“Norah!” Startled, I stop moving and look at the top of the ridge. “Where are you?”

“I’m here, in town, but that’s not the thing.”

“Uh . . . okay?”

“The reason I’m calling is Maya broke her arm at work yesterday and she is really in pain. She doesn’t want to call you because she thinks she was mean to ask you to go home, but I think she needs you. You, in particular.”

My stomach pitches to the bottom of a deep ravine. I make myself ask the question: “Was she drunk?”

“What? No! She just tripped over a chair leg or something at work.”

“Good.” I’m ashamed for jumping to conclusions, but already moving toward the house and my keys and my car. “Okay. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Belle l’été?”

“Yes.”

“Norah, how did you know this?”

“It’s a really long story,” she says. “I just wanted you to know.”

“Thank you,” I say sincerely, and then: “Hey, have you talked to the police? They’ve been looking for you.”