This Place of Wonder (65)

No. Even that is a dodge. I’m braless. So what.

Better. I lift my chin.

He takes a cookie and our eyes meet. A current of desire burns down my spine, crosses my thighs, and I give him a half smile. For once in my life, I just tell the truth. “Under different circumstances, I would be very attracted to you.”

“Would be?” He takes a bite of cookie, waiting.

“Am,” I correct.

His calm British politeness drops away, and he inclines his head. “Same,” he says simply. “And same.”

I smile naturally. “Good. I could really use a friend right now.”

“So can I,” he said, and brushes crumbs from his hands. “Do you play backgammon?”

“I love it, actually, and there’s probably a set in the library. I’ll go see.”

“I can fetch it if you like.”

I shake my head. “No, that’s all right. I’ll be right back.”





Chapter Twenty-Nine


Meadow


Rory calls me as I’m arriving in town. “Can you come over today? I told the girls that their grandpa is gone.” She pauses. “Dead.”

“Oh, honey.” Why does it seem that both children have a crisis at the same time? This happened over and over when they were young, one having trouble with a friend while the other was struggling with a subject in school. I pull the car over into the parking lot of a gym. “How are they?”

“I don’t think they really get it. Maybe I’m bad at this.”

“You’re not bad at it. It’s hard.”

“I guess.”

Something in her voice makes me lift my head. Rory is always the even-tempered one, the easy one. She was never much trouble, even as a teenager, blessed with that easygoing way. I have no idea where she got it.

Now, my mother-nerves are prickling. “How are you, sweetie? Did the police call you, too?”

“Yes.” A pause, and I can hear the emotion in her voice. “How could he have had cancer and not said anything?”

“Maybe he didn’t know,” I say.

“I didn’t think of that.” She sounds broken. “When can you come?”

I was not always the best mother to this child, and I want to do the right thing now, but Maya’s need feels more urgent. The light changes and I turn right to go up the road toward Belle l’été. “I can come in an hour or so. I’m on my way to see your sister. Did you know she broke her arm at work yesterday?”

“What? No! Where is she? At home?”

“Yes. I’m almost there.”

“I’m coming, too,” she says, and there’s no dissuading her when she takes that tone. “Should I get anything? Watermelon, maybe?”

“Are the girls there?”

“No. They went to day camp this morning.”

“Nice. Could you possibly make some more of that limeade? It was good.”



I hear laughter when I get out of the car at Belle l’été, and follow the sound through an arched wooden gate down a flagstone path to the pool area. Maya sits with a man at the glass table in the shade of the pergola, the pair of them bent over a backgammon board. I’m struck by her ease, a body posture I don’t often see, and as I round the pool to the side of the patio, I see that there’s something particular about them. It takes me a moment to pull it in—they have the body language of a long-term couple, as if they belong together. A strange emotion rises in me over that, confusion and a sense of loss and jealousy.

Until he raises his head, I don’t realize that he’s the doctor from the horrible modern house down the road, the husband of an actress who drowned not long ago. He sees me as I see him, and he raises a hand. “Hello.”

Maya looks up, and her expression is confused. “Meadow!” She stands to give me a one-armed hug, and I smell sweat and old coffee. Her eyes are tired. “What are you doing here?”

“I heard about your broken wrist.” A bright pink cast covers her arm to the elbow. “What happened?”

“A work accident,” she says, holding up the cast. “I swear.” She lifts her chin toward the man. “Ayaz will vouch for me. He was there.”

I glance at him, feeling another wave of that loss and the worry their body language gave me. Her sobriety is too new for a relationship. “I believe you. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I’m fine, honestly.” She glances at the board, then at the man, as if they were carrying on a conversation I interrupted.

I turn to him, holding out a hand, gathering details about him from his face. Weariness around his eyes, his mouth. A high, intelligent brow. “Meadow Beauvais,” I say. “You’re the doctor, right? I remember when you moved in eight or ten years ago, but I’m not sure we ever officially met.”

“Doctor?” Maya echoes. “I thought you were a writer.”

“Both,” he says, standing to shake my hand respectfully. “Dr. Ayaz Kartal,” he says. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Did you call her?” Maya asks him, pointing to me.

“No.”

“It was Norah,” I say, twisting my mouth at the irony. “She thought you might want some company.”