I chop whatever she tells me to, then watch her rechop it to her liking. It’s a strange reversal, seeing the things my baby sister has mastered that I never got around to. It makes me proud, but also sort of sad. Maybe this is how parents feel when their kids grow up, like some piece of them has become fundamentally unknowable.
“Remember when you were going to be a chef?” I ask one night while I’m chopping basil and tomato for a pizza she’s making.
She gives a noncommittal hm that could mean of course as easily as not ringing any bells.
She was always so smart, so creative. She could’ve done anything, and I know she loves being a mom, but I can also understand why she needed this so badly, the chance to be a lone person before she’s got a newborn attached to her hip again.
Like every night so far, we eat dinner out on the deck, and afterward, once I’ve washed the dishes and put everything away, we scour the trunk full of board games and play dominoes out on the deck, the strands of globe lights our only illumination.
A little after ten, Libby shuffles to bed, and I go back to the kitchen table to hunt through apartment listings online. Soon I have to face the fact of the wonky internet and give up, but I’m not even close to tired, so I stuff my feet into Libby’s Crocs and wander out into the meadow at the front of the cottage. The moonlight and stars are bright enough to turn the grass silvery, and the humidity holds the day’s heat close, the sweet, grassy smell thick in the air.
Feeling so entirely alone is unnerving, in the same way as staring at the ocean at night, or watching thunderclouds form. In New York, it’s impossible to escape the feeling of being one person among millions, as if you’re all nerve endings in one vast organism. Here, it’s easy to feel like the last person on earth.
Around one, I climb into bed and stare at the ceiling for an hour or so before I drift off.
On Saturday morning, we follow our usual schedule, but when I walk into the bookstore, I come up short.
“Hello there!” The tiny woman behind the register smiles as she stands, the scents of jasmine and weed wafting off her. “Can I help you?”
She looks like a woman who’s spent her life outside, her olive skin permanently freckled, the sleeves of her denim shirt rolled up her dainty forearms. She has coarse, dark hair that falls to her shoulders; a pretty, round face; and dark eyes that crinkle at the corners to accommodate her smile. The crease beneath her lip is the giveaway.
Sally Goode, the owner of our cottage. Charlie’s mother.
“Um,” I say, hoping my smile is natural. I hate when I have to think about what my face is doing, especially because I’m never convinced it’s translating. I wasn’t planning to stay long, just an hour or so to work through some more email before meeting Libby for lunch, but now I feel guilty using the Wi-Fi for free.
I grab the first book I see, The Great Family Marconi, one of those books fated to be hurled across a room by my sister, then picked up by me. Unlike Libby, I loved the last page so much I read it a dozen times before flipping back to the front. “Just this!”
“My son edited this one,” Sally Goode says proudly. “That’s what he does, for a living.”
“Oh.” Someone get me a public speaking trophy, I’m on fire. Only speaking to Libby and Charlie for a week has clearly diminished my capacity to slip into Professional Nora.
Sally tells me my total, and when I hand over my card, her eyes slide across it. “Thought that might be you! Not often I don’t recognize someone in here. I’m Sally—you’re staying in my cottage.”
“Oh, wow, hi!” I say, once again hoping I come across as a human, raised by other humans. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“You too—how’s the place working out for you? You want a bag for the book?”
I shake my head and accept the book and card back. “Gorgeous! Great.”
“It is, isn’t it?” she says. “Been in my family as long as this shop. Four generations. If we hadn’t had kids, we would’ve lived there forever. Lots of happy memories.”
“Any ghosts?” I ask her.
“Not that I’ve ever seen, but if you meet any, tell them Sally says hi. And not to scare off my guests.” She pats the counter. “You girls need anything up at the cottage? Firewood? Roasting stakes for marshmallows? I’ll send my son over with some wood, just in case.”
Oh, Lord. “That’s okay.”
“He’s got nothing to do anyway.”
Except his two full-time jobs, one of which she just mentioned.
“It’s not necessary,” I insist.
Then she insists, saying verbatim, “I insist.”
“Well,” I say, “thanks.” After a few minutes of work in the café, I thank her again and slip out into the dazzlingly sunny street to cross over to Mug + Shot.
My phone gives a short, snappy vibration. A text from an unknown number.
Why is my mother texting me about how hot you are?
This can only be one person.
Weird, I write. Think it has anything to do with the fact that I just went to the bookstore in nothing but a patent leather trench coat?
Charlie replies with a screenshot of some texts between him and his mom.
Cottage guest is very pretty, Sally writes, then, separately, No ring.
Charlie replied: Oh? Thinking about leaving Dad?
She ignored his comment and instead said, Tall. You always liked tall girls.
What are you talking about, Charlie wrote back, no question mark.
Remember your homecoming date? Lilac Walter-Hixon? She was practically a giant.
That was the eighth-grade formal, he said. It was before my growth spurt.
Well this girl’s very pretty and tall but not too tall.
I stifle a laugh.
Tall but not TOO tall, I tell Charlie, can also be added to my headstone.
He says, I’ll make a note.
I say, She told me you would bring wood over to the cottage for me.
He says, Please swear to me you didn’t make a “too late for that” joke.
No, but Principal Schroeder was in the café, and I’ve heard the gossip moves fast here, so it’s only a matter of time.
Sally’s going to be so disappointed in you, Charlie says.
Me? What about her SON, the Rake of Main Street?
The ship of her disappointment in me set sail a long time ago. I’d have to do something WAY sluttier to let her down now.
When she finds your stash of Bigfoot erotica under your race car bed, maybe the ship will circle back.