Dandelion Dreams (5 page)

I trudged down the stairs, noting the embers in the hearth. I had fallen asleep with the warmth of a raging fire, but now I was cold once again. I opened the door to Celia standing on the steps, holding a cup of coffee.

I let her in. Without a word, she handed me the mug and went to stoke the fire. As the flames came back to life, I shuddered with relief.

“You didn’t make it over for dinner.”

“Jet lag.”

“I figured.”

I sat on the couch and leaned my head back against the cushion. “What the hell am I doing?” I said, more to myself than to Celia.

Without hesitation, she sat and wrapped her arms around me. Burying my head in her shoulder, I began to sob. She made soothing noises against my hair, but then I realized it was the sound of Celia’s own crying; we grieved together. When the storm of emotion passed, I pulled back and dried my face. She did the same and smiled in self-conscious understanding.

“You don’t have to have anything figured out. Right now, all you have to do is come over and let me make you pancakes. Think you can do that?”

•••

I sat at the table, drinking another cup of coffee and taking small dainty bites of fluffy pancakes. In my state of grief, everything was muted; colors, tastes, smells. All my senses were drowning in an ocean of anguish.

“So, I run the bed and breakfast,” Celia said, taking a seat. “Man the desk, cook, set up tours that sort of thing. Luc and my husband handle the vineyard. When you’re feeling situated, would you be interested in helping? Might give you something to do.”

“Sure.” I stood up. “I need to send an email. May I use your computer?”

Celia led me to the front desk and logged on before stepping away to give me privacy, though I hardly needed it. Opening my inbox, I filtered through the junk mail, disregarding Connor’s emails, pleas for me to return to him and my sanity.

I typed a message to Jules that read simply,
Arrived
. I pressed send and logged out. It wouldn’t hold her at bay forever, but it would give me a momentary reprieve.

“I was thinking Luc could show you around
Tours
?”

“What can I do?” Luc asked, strolling into the room.

“Show Sage the town.”

Luc looked at me. “Sure. That okay with you?”

I nodded. “Let me shower real fast.”

We drove twenty minutes to downtown and parked in a narrow alley. I was tired, drugged, and spacey, so I let Luc lead me. He pointed out landmarks, the train station, and the university. We walked along the main drag, and he took me to a cell phone store, where I bought a serviceable phone as opposed to a gadget. I sent a quick text to Jules and then turned it off.

There weren’t many people who needed to know my whereabouts. I liked being off the grid. I wanted simple.

“I’ve never been to New York,” Luc said, attempting to engage me in conversation. “What’s it like?”

Until a week ago, it hadn’t just been a city—it had been my home, and a place to build memories. I’d become an adult there, yet the idea of ever returning burned a hole in the cavern of my belly. “It’s a bizarre place.”

He laughed. “How so?”

Tilting my head to one side, I thought about it. “I used to love the hustle—I thrived on the energy, but things change. What was it like growing up here, in this idyllic, postcard-perfect place?”

Luc smiled. “Couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.”

“Have you traveled?”

He nodded. “All over Europe. Australia. I’ve seen enough to know this will always be home.”

It started to rain, and though I had an umbrella that kept me dry, the cobblestone was slick, and I slipped. I sat still, water soaking into my jeans, the cold of winter seeping into my bones.

“What are you doing?” Luc demanded. “Get up.”

When I didn’t move, he hauled me to my feet. Our umbrellas clashed against one another, dribbling rain on his coat and neck. “I think it’s time to go home.”

We drove in silence, and my eyes began to close. I was tired, always tired. When we got back to the cottage, I let Luc build a fire as I stripped off my coat and boots. I went upstairs to change into dry clothes, then came back and reclined on the couch, throwing a plaid blanket over my legs.

“Do you want to talk about her?” Luc asked.

“No.” I glanced at him. What did he see when he looked at me? I knew the bags under my dull gray eyes threatened to take over my entire visage, and my wan skin was drained of the blush of life. My cheekbones were grotesque arrows pointing to my frozen anguish. I was a canvas of flaws. “You don’t have to stay with me.”

“I know,” he said, “but I thought you could use some comfort.”

Comfort. I’d forgotten the meaning of the word. Connor hadn’t given me much in the way of it—he hadn’t known how. And Jules…well, she had her own idea of what it meant.

My head throbbed, crammed full and threatening to burst open. Maybe I should talk about my mother. Maybe that would make me feel better, though I doubted it.

“I wish I had a drink,” I muttered. “These things are easier with a drink.”

“There’s some wine in the main house.”

I shook my head. “Wine will not do for this kind of conversation.”

“What then?”

“Scotch. Or tequila. Something that numbs.” I placed my head in my hands.

“Just talk, Sage.”

I sighed. Defeat was ubiquitous. “I felt relief when she died. She was in so much pain; I just wanted it to end. We put pets to sleep when there’s no hope, but we watch our loved ones linger in their misery. Her suffering became my suffering.” I lifted my head, heavy with guilt. “I know how I sound.”

“You sound human.”

“Humans are heartless.”

“Or, maybe, they have too much heart. Ever think of that?”

“She was a writer.”

“I know. We have her books in the library.”

“Ever read them?”

He shook his head. “Not my genre.
Maman
has read them, though.”

“What did she think?”

“Good stories. Your mother was very successful.”

“Yes, she was.” I paused in thought before asking, “What is the one thing that defines you, Luc?”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“You’re a winemaker. Is that how you see yourself?”

“Ah. No, I’m other things too.”

I sighed. “I’m worried I’m only a writer—we define ourselves because we have to, and I don’t want to be defined. If I say ‘writer’, what does it really mean?” I felt drunk, but I knew it was just exhaustion. I wished I was drunk, so drunk I couldn’t form a coherent thought. “It’s fitting, you see, that Mom died when she did.”

“What do you mean?”

“The last book she wrote was her best work; she strived for it her entire life. It was the pinnacle of her creativity. After that, there’s nowhere to go but down,” I whispered. “It never would’ve happened for her again, and she would’ve spent the rest of her life cursing herself for that one moment of brilliance, because it would’ve set the bar so high she’d never be able to surpass it.”

“You weren’t lying, were you? About needing a drink?”

I couldn’t swallow my startled laughter.

“Come on. That’s enough for one day.”

Tugging me off the couch, he led me to the door. We ran to the manor in an attempt to stay dry, entering through the back door. We went into the kitchen, where Celia was placing ingredients on the counter.

“How was your day?” she asked.

“Rainy,” I replied.

Luc went to the cabinet and pulled out wine glasses. “Is
Papa
home yet?”

Celia nodded. “Showering, and then he’ll be down.”

“Good.” He opened a bottle of wine and poured me an overly full glass.

I wanted scotch, but wine would have to do. I took a sip and choked in surprise. I wasn’t expecting the sharp burst of fruit on my tongue. It made me think of hot summers, picnics under trees and the hum of bees. “Oh.”

Luc grinned and shot his mother a glance.

I felt like I was borrowing a memory that didn’t belong to me. “Wow. Just—wow.” I used to have a way with words. How ironic that they failed me in that moment.

“Glad you like it,” a man said, entering the kitchen. He had the same color eyes as his son, but he was a good five inches shorter. His face was weathered and ruddy, a testament to his time spent outdoors. “Armand,” he introduced.

“Sage.” I took another sip. “I’ve never tasted anything like this.”

Armand grinned like he wasn’t surprised, and then went to kiss his wife before pouring himself a glass. “It’s good to be home. I’m tired.”

“How’s
Grand-mère
?” Luc asked.

“Stubborn, but settled in her new place. I wish she would move back.”

“Never going to happen,” Celia said. “Your mother is far too independent.” She unwrapped a wedge of Camembert and placed it on a platter. Washing a cluster of purple grapes, she put them next to the cheese and then brought it to the table. Luc and Armand sat down while Celia stayed at the counter and began dicing an onion.

“Would you like some help?” I offered.

Celia smiled. “Sure.” She pulled out a large pot and filled it three quarters of the way with water. After dumping in a palm full of salt, she covered it with the lid, turned the burner on high, and transferred chopped pancetta into a sizzling frying pan. She threw the onions into another skillet and slowly caramelized them, and then combined them with the crispy pancetta and stirred.

“What are we making exactly?” I asked as I watched her break four eggs into a bowl of cream and whisk them.

“Spaghetti Carbonara.”

I paused. “Isn’t that Italian?”

“It is,” Celia agreed. “Oh, were you hoping for a French meal?”

I wasn’t hoping for anything at all. And that was the truth of it. “No, it’s fine. It smells great.”

The timer buzzed, and she tested a noodle and then gave me one. “Al dente—perfect.”

She divided the pasta onto four plates, added the cream of eggs, shaved Parmesan, and then cracked fresh black pepper.

“Where did you learn to make this?” I wondered aloud when we were all seated around the table.

“My mother,” Armand interjected with a smile.

“Go ahead, everyone,” Celia said.

I hesitated and then took a bite. The creamy, bacon and egg dish glided over my tongue, and I felt true hunger for the first time since Mom died.

As I listened to the laughter and conversation around me, I realized that life would continue whether I wanted it to or not.

I pushed back from the table. “Excuse me—I’m not feeling well.” I ran from the room and rushed out the back door into the cold, rainy night, unraveling like a loose spool of yarn.

Ducking into the cottage, I stood in front of the fire as I dug into my purse for pills to help me sleep.

•••

It was still dark when I opened my eyes. The rain had stopped sometime in the night, and despite the medication, shadowy thoughts had moved throughout my subconscious and infiltrated my dreams. I was tired and shaky; it was a usual post-burial morning.

Trembling, I got up from the couch where I’d fallen asleep and wrapped the blanket around my thin, scarecrow-like frame. Since my mother’s diagnosis I’d lost a good fifteen pounds, and I hadn’t had it to lose in the first place. Every time I looked in the mirror, I bit my lip to keep from gasping—what I saw scared the hell out of me.

There was a soft knock on the door. I knew it was Celia; she seemed to be making it her mission to care for me, but I busy being at war with myself.

Celia came into the cottage and handed me a loaf tin covered in aluminum foil. “Homemade bread.”

I sniffed, and my stomach rumbled. I was in momentary shock that my mouth filled with saliva, my taste buds enticed by aroma alone. It made me yearn for all the comfort that food gave. I could use the calories. Maybe I’d find a way back to life through my stomach, since it didn’t yield to heartache—not anymore—it was an angry baby bird wanting to be fed.

“I’m sorry…about last night,” I apologized, taking a seat on the couch and tearing off a corner of the warm, yeasty loaf. I stuck it in my mouth and chewed.

If only my misery wasn’t worn on my face. I wished I could bury it deep inside.

“Don’t apologize,” Celia said. “You’ll come out of your shell when you’re ready. In the meantime, I plan on feeding you and checking in on you, whether you want it or not. I’m here as a friend.”

Celia didn’t ask anything of me, and I exhaled a sigh of relief I hadn’t known I held. “Thank you.”

“Get dressed. Armand wants to show you the vineyard.”

•••

Thirty minutes later, I walked with Armand through acres of rolling hillside, covered in well-groomed rows of vines. The day was overcast, but it didn’t look like it would rain. Everything was quiet, sleeping, awaiting the season of the sun. I wondered what the vineyard would be like in spring, ripe and in bloom.

What was it like to create something so beautiful? Armand was a maker of wine. My mother had been a maker of books. The need to create was inherently human, and strong within me. How I managed to settle for such an empty career was beyond me.

“How long has your family owned the vineyard?”

“Generations,” Armand explained. “When my mother and father married, she moved here. After my father died, she returned to Italy.”

“Italian to the core?”

“Without a doubt.”

“What was my mother like? Back then?” I asked before I could take it back.

Armand looked at me. “Headstrong. Always knew what she wanted and where she was going. She’s the reason I met Celia, did you know?”

I shook my head.

“It was their junior year of college. Summer. They were traveling all around Europe, and Celia wanted to go to Belgium, but Penny insisted on France. They got here, and the rest, they say, is history.”

“Love at first sight?” I smiled.

“God no!” Armand laughed. “Celia detested me, but I knew what I wanted, and I pursued her—relentlessly.”

“She finally gave in?”

Armand’s blue eyes twinkled. “Celia saw me flirting with Penny one night, and it made her realize she wasn’t indifferent after all.”

I laughed. It sounded exactly like something Mom would have done, and in that moment I almost felt like she walked alongside us. Those we loved would be immortalized in our memories, until we too, were gone.