Dolly All the Time(44)

“Are you looking for the restroom?” Gladys asks from the doorway.

“No, actually. I’m looking for Stewart. Have you seen him?”

She gives me a solemn smile. “He left through the kitchen. He won’t have gone far. He wouldn’t have left you.” Ah, Gladys is the one who knows him the way I do.

I follow her back through the formal living room, then the dining room, toward the kitchen. I thank her and wave awkwardly at two women who are washing dishes and make my way out the delivery entrance. It’s quiet out here, with the huge limestone house blocking me from the waves. The only sound is my feet on the gravel, like I’m walking on diamonds.

I walk toward the formal gardens and find Stewart sitting on the ground with his back to a small stone bench. His large frame is slumped over his knees, and I crouch down next to him.

“Stewart. Look at me,” I say. He raises his head but doesn’t meet my eyes. “You’ve gone pale. Are you okay?”

He’s taking shallow breaths and shakes his head a tiny bit.

“Want me to get you inside?” I ask, and he shakes his head no. His eyes are unfocused, and his forehead is damp. I reach up to touch his cheek and then his forehead, like I would to Gus. He’s clammy. “Tell me what you need,” I say. “Is this a panic attack?”

He keeps taking shallow breaths, and I place a hand on his chest. His heart is beating so quickly that it scares me. “Stewart, say something.”

“Yes. Panic attack,” he says.

“Okay,” I say. “You’re going to be okay.” I put my hands on his face again and force him to look me in the eye. “You’re going to be absolutely fine. I’ve got you.” He nods, but his eyes are heavy. “Is it okay if I put my arms around you? A hug is good to reset the nervous system.”

“Yes,” he says.

Without giving it any thought, I climb sideways onto his lap. I wrap my arms around his neck and am hit by the narcotic smell of him, but I can’t meet his eyes from this angle. This hug isn’t about me floating into another reality; it’s supposed to be about bringing him back to this one. I hike up my dress and shift so I’m straddling him. I place a hand on either side of his neck, and his eyes focus on me. He rests his forehead against mine, and I make a big show of breathing deeply to remind him to do the same. I weave my fingers up into his hair and back down his neck, letting the rhythm calm me too. “You’re okay. We’re okay,” I say over and over until his breaths start to deepen.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a while. “I’m fine.” He runs a hand through his hair, and I feel the ghost of where it had been resting on my thigh. I shift off his lap to sit beside him, arranging my dress the best I can.

“Do you want to go back inside?” I ask. Some of his color has returned. “Or I could throw you in the back of my getaway car?”

He gives me a weak smile and stands up, offering me a hand. When we’re face-to-face, he pulls me into a hug. I can feel his rabbit heartbeat against my cheek as I wrap my arms around his back. He smooths the back of my hair with one hand and holds me tight with the other. “This is actually lifesaving touching,” he whispers. “Thank you.”

I’m not ready to break the hug. It’s resetting my adrenals too, so I hang on for an extra few seconds. His shirt has been laundered in lavender and I breathe it in. “Okay, that was crazy,” I say when I pull away. I reach up and touch his face again. I run my thumbs along his cheekbones. Last time it was diagnostic, but this time I just feel like it. We have broken the touch barrier and are standing inches apart, looking at each other with new eyes.

“I’m fine,” he says. “A little embarrassed, but fine.”

“Don’t be. Your dad’s kind of terrifying.” I rest my hand on his chest. “Your heart is still beating fast, let’s walk around a little bit.”

He loops my arm through his and we make our way through the gardens in silence. We pass snapdragons and white spray roses. I stop to run my finger over the tiny sharp petals of a red dahlia.

Beyond the formal gardens is an ivy-covered archway that’s dripping with cherry tomatoes in all stages of ripeness. Without thinking, I pick one and pop it into my mouth. It explodes with unexpected sweetness. These are not Stop n’ Save tomatoes. He reaches a hand toward my mouth, then stops himself. “Just there,” he says, as I lick a tomato seed from my lip. His eyes stay on my mouth. I blush and look through the archway.

“Can we go in?” I ask.

“Into the vegetable garden?”

I nod. “I bet it’s totally calming.” I think we could both use that at this point.

“Okay,” he says. I go first, ducking under the tomato archway, and emerge into a circular garden. Eggplant, peppers, zucchini, and string beans. Red leaf lettuce and kale. There’s a separate raised bed for herbs, and I lean down to pick a bit of the rosemary. Stewart sits on the edge of the bed, so I do too.

“Do you mind?” I ask, and hold up the rosemary. “This smells so good, and now I want to make an olive oil cake.”

“That sounds delicious.”

“So do you want to talk about it?” I ask. “What just happened?”

He shakes his head.

“Give me your hand,” I say, and take it on my lap, palm side up. I run a finger along his lifeline. I trace his thumb and each of his fingers over and over again. I am hypnotizing myself with the rough feel of his skin and the smell of the rosemary and basil.