We watch Stone pick up his board, like it’s no more than a book, and head up the steps.
“He’s just so strong,” she says, and I know what she means.
The only person in my life I never had to worry about getting hurt.
CHAPTER SEVEN
We eat as the sun descends. Linguini with clams and garlic oil, roasted eggplant, salad with shallot vinaigrette and heirloom tomatoes with the soft burrata from the top shelf. The house has an open dining room that spills out onto the deck, and we keep the doors open throughout dinner, hearing the waves crash.
“I love this salad dressing,” Marcella says.
“It’s the herbs,” Sylvia says, wrapping another bite on her fork. “They make the dish.”
Marcella is the one who tends the herb garden out front, and I take Sylvia’s comment as an out-of-character compliment—I wonder if my mother does, too. It still surprises me, sometimes, how different the three of us are. How even after all this time, even after everything we share—blood, this gift, a genetic lineage, this home—my mother and grandmother remain somewhat of a mystery to me.
“Are you going to stay the weekend?” my dad asks.
“I hadn’t decided yet,” I say. “Leo isn’t back until tomorrow night. I left Pea enough food for it, though.”
“You’ll stay,” Sylvia says. “Tai chi meets here tomorrow night.”
“I’ve never seen so many people drink wine at a tai chi night,” my dad says.
“It’s good for the vibes,” Sylvia says.
“You really shouldn’t do too many one-leg balances,” my mother says, and at that Sylvia changes the subject.
Afterward my parents and I clean up and Sylvia retires to her back house.
“See you in the morning,” she says. “But not too early! Don’t go banging on my door until it’s time for a mimosa.”
She’s always slept late. When I was a child and she still lived upstairs, I remember I was allowed to knock on Sylvia’s door only after 9:00 a.m. I’d crawl into bed with her, and we’d watchLive with KellyorThe View.
“All these women do is talk over each other,” she’d say, but she watched anyway. We’d share her coffee, me sneaking sips and Sylvia pretending not to notice until the cup ran cold or it was empty.
I dry out the orange Le Creuset pot and store it under the stove. My mom has already gone up, and it’s just me and Dad left in the kitchen.
“Tea or another glass?” he asks me.
I slide the bottle of cab across the table to him, and he pours for us.
“Good choice.”
Without saying anything, we take our glasses outside. We settle into sun chairs on the deck, side by side. The breeze off the ocean is almost cold now. I pull over my head a stray sweatshirt that’s been discarded by someone—probably Dad—earlier today.
Dad takes a sip. “I don’t know if I should be flattered or worried that my thirty-seven-year-old daughter still can’t spend a night alone.”
I exhale out a laugh. “I can. I think. I mean, I could.”
“Yes, very convincing.”
Before I met Leo, spending the night alone in the bungalow was habit, routine. But since I’ve been with him, any time I’m alone there I start to feel like I’m on high alert. What if an intruder comes in? What if that earthquake finally hits and we can’t find each other? Being tethered to someone ups the survival stakes.
“I ran into Stone today.”
Dad just looks at me, raises his eyebrows slightly, waiting for me to continue.
“I guess Bonnie isn’t doing so good. Mom never mentioned it.”
