“Right. D-do most people in my situation choose to undo it?”
“It’s only happened twice, and in both cases, the parties elected not to be PUF’ed. As Lord Tennyson observed, ’tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all.”
The strumming stops. Alice passes her gaze over all of us, her face faraway. Then she starts up with her uke again.
Aunt Bryony rises. “Take as long as you need to decide. We’ll see ourselves out.”
I linger, looking for my feet in the fluffy Sherpa carpets.“Court.” His gaze snaps to me, but I can barely meet his eyes. “It could work on you, too.”
He scoffs, a sharp exhale of breath, and shakes his head.
I back away, a smaller, more wilted version of myself. “Again, I’m really sorry.” Head down, I follow my aunt. Once the carpets end, our footsteps clack noticeably on the home stretch of tiles to the front door.
As we reach the front door of the great hacienda, the ukulele stops midsong, and the notes hang in the air.
“Stop,” says Alice, pushing off against Court’s knee to standing.
“I’ll do it.”
“Mom.” Court lets out a frustrated groan. “Are you sure?”
Alice pads to us, shoulders straight and head lifted. “Yes. I have already loved and lost. I’d rather not do it a second time.”
Court moves reluctantly behind his mother.
“As for Franklin, if there’s someone else he loves, I don’t want to interfere.”
Aunt Bryony opens the cooler. The bud transformed into a papery white bloom with three petals, bursting with golden marmalade hues. “Your mother would be proud of you,” she whispers in my ear.
Alice squeezes her eyes shut and bares her wrist, as if this were a blood transfusion and not a simple swipe of the skin.
Court, who has ceased making eye contact with me, watchesmy fingers pluck a petal to injure the plant. I slide the torn petal across Alice’s skin. She sighs, a breathyhmm. The PUF will reverse my erroneous fixing, but I cannot put things back the way they were.
For anyone.
THIRTY-TWO
“‘WHY DO THE PLANTS SMELL LIKE US?’ YOU ASK.
WHY NOT?WE DRINK THE SAME WATER,
WE BREATHE THE SAME AIR.WE SHARE A HISTORY ON THIS EARTH.”
—Ruza, Aromateur, 1818
BACK IN AUNTBryony’s rental car, we glide to the fountain. Thankfully nobody has pinched my bike. “What if Mr. Frederics really does like Alice? Is there an exception to the no-rekindling rule?”
The emergency brake makes a ripping sound as she steps on it. “No, we can’t fix her again. It would be unfair.”
A vision of an old and feeble Mr. Frederics seated in front of a TV tray flashes in my mind. He stares at a pink bakery box, sun-bleached white after decades of decorating the mantel.
“You’re a worrier, like your mother. Here’s a secret for you.” She leans closer to me. “We’re not as powerful as we think.” Her amber eyes glitter. “Sometimes things happen that have nothing to do with our flowers, and the best we can do is the best we can do.”
I hop out of the car to fetch my bike.
She rolls down her window. “Meet you back at home.”
Home.
