In the Age of Love and Chocolate (Birthright #3)(57)

“Natty, you shouldn’t have invited Win.”

She shrugged. “It’s his mother’s house. Of course he was going to come. Besides, it was his father who invited him, not me, so I assumed it was fine with you. Aren’t you two thick as thieves now?”

Mr. Delacroix, I thought, et tu, Brute?

“Win already knew I was coming, and he asked me if I wanted to travel with him, not the other way around.” She paused to look at me. “Seeing him won’t be awful for you, will it?”

“No, of course not. It’ll be fine. You’re right. I don’t know what my problem was back there. I suppose I was surprised. The truth is, he’s like a different person and so am I. And those new people don’t even know each other.”

“So no chance that you’ll try to rekindle the romance? It is very romantic here.”

“No, Natty. All that is done. And I have no interest in romance with anyone at the moment. Possibly ever.”

She looked like she wanted to say something more, but she bit her tongue.

* * *

We ate dinner on the porch, though I was still not hungry. Despite what I had said to Natty, I felt angry at Mr. Delacroix for inviting me, angry at Win for coming, and angry at Natty for not knowing enough to tell Win to stay in Boston. I excused myself before dessert, which was peach cobbler, and went to bed.

* * *

As would become my custom, I woke at dawn to drag myself around the farm. I knew I needed to exercise, but I didn’t want anyone to watch me. Then I limped over to a deck chair and lay down with a book.

Every day, Win and Natty went on excursions, like kayaking, trips to the farmers’ market, and horseback riding. They tried to include me, but I resisted activities.

One afternoon, they came home with a carton of strawberries from a nearby farm. “We picked these for you,” Natty said. Her cheeks were ruddy, and her long black hair was so shiny and glossy that I thought I could practically use it as a mirror. The truth was, I couldn’t remember her ever having been prettier. Her prettiness struck me as aggressive and almost offensive. It was a reminder of how not pretty I looked at that moment.

“I’m not hungry,” I said.

“You always say that,” Natty said, popping one into her mouth. “I’ll leave them for you then.” She set them on the table next to my chair. “Can we get you anything else?”

“I’m fine.”

She sighed and looked as if she might argue with me. “You should eat,” she said. “You won’t get well if you don’t eat.”

I picked up my book.

Later that afternoon, just before sunset, Win returned to the deck. He took the carton of strawberries, which I had not touched. We had not spoken much since he’d arrived. I didn’t think he was avoiding me, but I really was awful company and I did nothing to encourage conversation. “Hey,” he said.

I nodded.

He was wearing a white shirt. He rolled up the sleeves. He took a single, perfect red strawberry from the carton. He carefully removed its leafy crown. He got down on one knee by my chair. He placed the strawberry in the center of the palm of his hand, and without looking at me, he held out his hand to me, as if I were an old dog that might turn on him. “Please, Annie, have this one,” he said in a soft, pleading tone.

“Oh, Win,” I said, trying to keep my voice light. “I’m fine. Really, I’m fine.”

“Just the one,” he implored. “For old times’ sake. I know you aren’t mine and I’m not yours, so I probably don’t have a right to ask you to do anything. But I hate seeing you so frail.”

This might have hurt my feelings, but it was said in an incredibly kind way. Besides, I knew how I looked. I was bones and messy hair and scars. I wasn’t trying to starve myself in some dramatic fashion. I was tired and I hurt and that took up the time I used to devote to feeding myself. “Do you truly think that one strawberry will make a difference?”

“I don’t know. I hope so.”

I leaned my head down and took the strawberry from his hand. For a fraction of a second, I let my lips rest on his palm. I took the strawberry in my mouth. The flavor was sweet, but delicate and strange, wild and a bit tart.

He took his hand back and closed it with resolve. A second later, he left without another word.

I picked up the carton, and I ate another strawberry.

* * *

The next afternoon, he brought me an orange. He peeled it and offered me a single section in the same way he had offered me that strawberry. He set the rest of the orange on the table and then he left.

* * *

And the afternoon after that, he brought me a kiwi. He took out a knife and removed its skin. He cut it into seven even slices and set a single one on his hand.

“Wherever did you get a kiwi?” I asked.

“I have my ways,” he said.

* * *

And then he brought me an enormous peach—pinkish orange and perfect, without a single bruise. He took a knife from his pocket. He was about to cut it, but I put my hand on his. “I think I’ll eat the whole peach, but promise not to watch me. I can tell it’s going to be messy.”

“As you wish,” he said. He took out his book, and he began to read.

The juice ran down my chin and hands, as I had expected. The peach was pulpy and so good I almost felt emotional as I ate it. I laughed for what felt like the first time in months. “I’m so dirty,” I said.