This Place of Wonder (69)

“Norah?” Rory pops up. “Are you kidding? She was the most normal woman Dad ever dated.”

Meadow stiffens, but when she lets me go, she’s found a smile to paste over her emotions. “Are you implying that I’m not normal?”

Rory raises a brow. “If the shoe fits . . .”



I make an appointment with Rory’s doctor to find out more about the pregnancy, and because of the situation, she squeezes me in the next day. This satisfies both Meadow’s and Rory’s need for order, and I call my boss, too, to discuss my options about the job with my arm in a cast.

To my surprise, she’s very relaxed about it. “Things happen,” she says. “Obviously you can’t work as a barista, but Nathan was telling us that you were known for your nose in the wine business. What about applying that to coffee? Maybe you’d enjoy the roasting and blending, and if you hate it, you can come back to work in the café once you’re able.”

Humbled, grateful, I say, “That would be great.”

“Take a few days to feel better, then give me a call.”

In the early evening, storms roll in, bringing gusty winds and dry lightning arcing over the ocean. I find myself in the kitchen, the Bluetooth synced to my phone and my playlist of cooking tunes, which I haven’t accessed in a long time. It feels good to hear the old favorites, an upbeat mix of soul and rock, much of it taken from the years when my parents had their dinner parties right in this house and would spend the day cooking together, playing music and chopping.

The memory is a happy one, and when the Beatles sing “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da,” I break from chopping onions in the food processor to spin around the island myself, shimmying my hips, singing along with the music. I don’t even miss wine, not tonight, and I know it’s partly because of The One living inside me right now, but it’s also just letting go of what was. Finding something else, like grapefruit seltzer water over ice with a twist of lime. Delicious.

Outside the rain and thunder create a seascape of tossing waves. Inside I’m simmering onions in butter very slowly, while I crush two dozen cloves of garlic. I’ve been dying for garlic, and this was one of my dad’s best recipes—caramelized onions, a cup of garlic cloves, salt and pepper, and Parmesan cheese topped with cream. The whole room smells amazing. “What do you think, baby?” I say to my belly. “Will you like garlic?”

Struggling a little to do everything left-handed, I peel garlic and toss it into the processor, and then scrape it into the butter. The scent slams into my taste centers, filling my mouth with saliva. It makes me laugh. Maybe my appetite isn’t just my body healing, but the baby, being hungry and growing, too.

Impulsively, I punch the contact for my sponsor. It goes to voice mail, which does happen sometimes, and I leave a cheery message. “Hi, Deborah. It’s Maya. I’m cooking my dad’s garlic soup. I’m all alone in this beautiful house and it feels like heaven. Even the weather is making me happy. Give me a call when you can. I have really interesting news!”

Just as I hang up, another call comes in. The screen says Ayaz, and I hesitate. Maybe Meadow is right—the last thing I need is the complication of a man. But didn’t we get that out in the open earlier today? I could use a friend. A sober friend even more. “Hello, Ayaz,” I say.

“Hello, Maya. I’m calling to see how you’re feeling.”

“It’s modestly painful, but not constant,” I say. “And I’m cooking tonight, which makes me happy.”

“Ah. A good activity for such a stormy night. What are you cooking, if I may be so bold?”

“Garlic soup, with cheese biscuits.” Again my mouth waters. And before I know I’m going to say it, the words come tumbling out of my mouth: “Would you like to join me?”

For a moment, he hesitates, and I feel that something between us. I hurry to excuse him. “No pressure.”

“I would love to. Shall I bring something?”

“Nope. Just yourself.” A great crashing boom of thunder slams the air, and we both laugh. “I wouldn’t walk.”

“No. I’ll be there soon.”

I hang up and the music comes back on, filling the room with upbeat love songs. I think of Meadow spinning around with her hair flying, and my father tipping her backward almost to the floor, kissing her neck. They were so beautiful, so passionately in love with each other. Rory and I rolled our eyes, but we both loved it. A swell of tears burns behind my eyes.

Nope. Not crying over an asshole who fractured our family without a single backward glance.

Not doing it.

But I miss him.





Chapter Thirty-One


Norah


I’m filling condiments at the bar, chitchatting with the bartender, a guy with a fabulous beard and the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen. In the days before Augustus, he would have been my exact catnip, but nothing about him attracts me at all. I wonder sadly but without a lot of heat if I am broken now, if Augustus and his charming ways have ruined me for anyone else. As I wipe down salt and pepper shakers, I think about that, wondering what it was exactly that made me fall so head over heels in love with him. Why Meadow did. Why all of us do. So many of us, and by the time I got him, he was pretty freaking old.

It didn’t matter. It was something about the way he turned his attention on you, completely, with a kind of laser-like focus that blocked everything else out, as if you were the only star in the entire galaxy. He gave compliments, but never smarmy ones—he paid attention, so he noticed when a color made my eyes stand out, or when I changed my nail polish or tried a new lipstick. He examined and admired every inch of my body and worshipped it, which was the sexiest thing in the world.