This Place of Wonder (74)

“No. Perhaps it’s just the cloud cover, trapping the smoke lower to the ground.”

“That makes sense.” I step back. “Come in.”

He passes me, turning his body toward mine, not away. He’s not tall, almost exactly my height, and our eyes meet, his dark and kindly. “It smells divine.”

I smile, closing the door, and put the puppy down again. “Divine,” I repeat.

“What?”

“It’s not really a word I’d ever use.”

“Why not?”

“It’s just not in my lexicon. I think it might be more of a British word than an American one.”

“Perhaps.” The puppy sniffs around his feet, tail wagging, then sits and looks up with a bid for attention. When Ayaz doesn’t notice, Cosmo yips, and Ayaz chuckles, kneeling to scrub his knuckles along the puppy’s back, then around his ears. “My apologies. You’re clearly the most important being in this room.”

It makes me like him more.

He stands by the island, looking around. “It’s lovely. Twenties?”

“I think so. Old Hollywood, anyway. A director built it and lived here the rest of his life.” Cosmo snuffles along the edge of the counter, finds some invisible tidbit and slurps it up, then waddles over to his bed and collapses with a sigh. I lift the lid on the pot simmering on the stove, give the soup a stir, and turn back. “Meadow says it was a hoarder’s paradise when they got in here, but that meant they could buy it for a price they could afford.”

He nods, touches the tiles. “Handmade.”

“Yes. For a couple of decades, my parents made some serious bank.” I lean on the counter. “I think my mom is still doing well, but Peaches and Pork is on its way out, I’m afraid.”

He nods, settling on one of the stools. “Will it be sold now that your father is dead?”

“I don’t know. That’s one of the things I have to decide, actually. He left it to me, so I have to figure it out.”

“The house and the restaurant both, hmm? That’s a big responsibility.”

“Tell me about it.” I look around the kitchen, at the tiled alcove for the stove, the windows opening to fresh breezes from the Pacific. “I love the house, honestly, but taxes and upkeep are enormous.”

“I’m facing the same choices. My wife was very wealthy, so it was nothing for her.”

“Did she leave it to you? The house?”

He nods. “California is a community property state.”

“So there should be money to keep it up, too.”

“I suppose.” His weariness feels akin to mine, and as if to emphasize, he wipes his face with his hands. “I feel I’m wasting time, doing nothing, not making choices.”

“I so get that. I have no idea what I’m going to do. None.” I think of the baby and it feels more pointed, but not yet so urgent I have to decide right now. “One thing I do know is that I am not going to run a restaurant.” I stir the soup and fragrance surrounds my head. “It’s ready,” I say.

“What can I do to help?”

“Take the bread to the table.” I gesture to the breadboard. I’ve already set the table with fresh linens, a summer tablecloth printed with big dahlias, woven green placemats, soft pink napkins as light as clouds. The linens are all Meadow. Why did she leave them behind? To remind my father that she’d made a beautiful home?

I ladle soup into bowls, but am hobbled by the cast, so Ayaz carries them one at a time. I open the fridge and point to the pitcher of limeade my sister made. “Would you like ice?”

“No, thank you.”

It’s easy to be with him, to move around the space without bumping, as if we know the path of the other’s feet already. When we sit at the round table in the breakfast nook, the windows open to the view of lightning crackling across the horizon, I feel as calm and happy as I have in—

A long time. Forever.

I raise my glass. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.” He sips and raises his eyebrows. “Excellent. Did you make this?”

“No, my sister. She’s been working on her alcohol-free game, and this is the top of the heap so far.”

“It tastes very like a fresh lime soda I used to buy from a vendor in London.”

“Is that where you grew up?”

“Partly. Partly in Turkey, though we left when I was seven, so I remember very little. The smell of roses, and the river that ran through the city. The call to prayer.”

“That’s very evocative.” I taste the soup, garlic sprinkled with Parmesan, layered with parsley, and I have to pause and close my eyes. My father is in the room, in my head and my heart, sitting at the table with us. I think suddenly that this baby will be his grandchild and he will never see it, and my heart cracks.

I keep my eyes closed until the highest peak of emotion passes, but still a tear leaks out, and I have to wipe it away.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

“Yes.” I take a breath. “I’m sorry. I was planning to be completely normal for once, but I guess I’m just going to be a wreck whenever you’re around.” I shake my head. “Or maybe I’m just a wreck all around at the moment.”

“Understandably,” he says smoothly. “And I rather think becoming emotional over this soup is perfectly appropriate. I’m ready to wipe a tear away myself.”