A week passes.The Civic Holiday weekend arrives. I tell the family we’re having a picnic Monday afternoon in the field. I fill a container with the wild raspberries that grow along Old Stone Road and Mom bakes a peach and raspberry pie. Dad barbecues chicken and ribs. I make deviled eggs and potato salad, corn, and coleslaw. Moby comes home and brings Mimi over. I lay blankets in the field. Darwin fetches chairs for our parents and Mimi to sit on, and we eat and laugh and make an utter mess of ourselves. It’s the most fun I’ve had with my family in a long time. But I miss George so keenly I feel it in my body—a sharp pain in my side. I excuse myself to bring out the platter of watermelon slices, and I put my forehead on the kitchen counter, willing myself not to cry.
There have been so many times when I’ve wanted to talk to him, when I’ve felt desperate to hear his voice, but I’ve heldmyself back from reaching out. I want to be sure of myself when I do.
I open my phone to our text message chain.
I miss you, I write.
But I’m not sure what else there is to say, so I put away my phone, message unsent.
When I return to the group, my mom sits on the blanket and pats her lap. I rest my head there, close my eyes, and listen to my family, knowing someone is missing.
• • •
Another week slipsby. Mimi and I drink iced tea while Leo cleans the pool, and when she mentions something about George’s grandfather never learning to swim, I realize that I’ve never asked her about how she met the great Edward Saint James. She tells me that she was dancing inGiselle, playing the part of the vengeful Queen Myrtha. One night, during the curtain call, she spotted an enormous man in the front row. He looked wholly out of place, burly and bearded, but he was on his feet as soon as she took her final bow, smiling right at her. And then he was there, backstage, with the principal ballerina’s fiancé, a close friend of his. Edward asked Mimi whether she was as villainous in real life as she was on stage, and when she’d said yes, he’d laughed so loud she thought she could feel the walls shake. It was a magnificent chesty bellow. Mimi was a goner.
“He was handsome and rich, and busy with his family’s lumber business here, which suited me just fine, since I was having a hell of a time in Montreal. We wrote to each other constantly.Oh, how Edward wrote. It’s where George gets his talent. He visited whenever he could, and then I got injured.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“I don’t like to talk about it. It was my own fault—a stress fracture to my tibia. I’d been pushing too hard, ignoring the signs, and it ended my career.” Mimi lights a cigarette.
“I’m so sorry.”
“It was a long time ago. Edward came right away. He took care of me. Proposed. I came here and started a new life. It was different from the one I’d lived before but no less magical.”
“That’s a nice story,” I say.
“It’s no story,ma puce. It’s my life.”
• • •
The urge toexplore arrives as I’m lying down for bed that night, itchy as a mosquito bite. The need is so great that I can’t sleep. I remember how I’d lie in this room as a child, wishing for something interesting to happen, sure my life would hold incredible adventures. But I’m not a child, and if I want adventures, I’m the one who has to make them happen. I open my laptop, and by the light of the screen, I start planning my next trip. I’ve been as far west as I can go in this country. Now I want to go east. Newfoundland, I think. Or maybe Prince Edward Island. Maybe my mom would come with me. Maybe she could show me her whales.
• • •
On August 16,three months after the wedding that never happened, I go to a yard sale with my mom. I rescue a vintageRidgway Heritage plate and begin my new collection. In my imaginary cookbook, I present each dish on mismatched antique china. Maybe a few pieces of pottery to make it feel contemporary. I could section the book by parts of the country: the coast, the woods, the plains…No slow-cooker recipes, but nothing too fussy, either. It would feel like me. I text Brie that evening.
Me:Would you consider it a conflict of interest if I were to write a cookbook one day?
Brie:No!
Brie:I mean, it would be bad if you developed your recipes on my time. But you have integrity, and I know you wouldn’t.
Me:Never. And it’s just a thought. I’m kind of craving a creative jolt.
Brie:In the meantime, let’s talk about how to give you a jolt at work.
Me:I’ve got ideas.
Brie:I have no doubt.
• • •
The next evening,I make pizza dough and grill it over charcoal with homemade tomato-basil sauce and fresh mozzarella. I top it with arugula and prosciutto. Darwin is watching the game with Dad, so Mom and I take our slices to the porch with glasses of red wine.
“When did you know you were in love with Dad?” I ask.
“Oh gosh. I really couldn’t tell you. It was so long ago. But I don’t think there was any one moment.”
