I follow him up the stairs. A house looms over us, all glass and wood, an aggressive show of wealth that Meadow hates. My father always mildly commented, “To each his own,” and I felt the same way. Why did the houses all have to be the same? What new thing will someone build in the future over here?
“Here we are,” Ayaz says, unlocking the heavy gate with a key and pushing it inward. “Sorry about that. We had a lot of trouble with paparazzi.”
He allows me to pass into a fenced garden with a pool. The space smells of roses and jasmine, as if I’ve wandered into a fairy tale or the Arabian nights. I suddenly feel faint and refocus on the conversation. “Paparazzi,” I repeat. “Intriguing.”
“Not really. They’re parasites and ruined my life for a time.”
“Your wife must be quite famous.”
“She was,” he says. “Now she’s dead.”
I’m taken aback and it must show on my face, because he adds, “I’m sorry. That sounds far more harsh than I meant it. Only that fame and life are fleeting, and the focus of those little armies of photographers is a very foolish pursuit.” He locks the gate and gestures for me to follow him across the garden and into an anteroom, then up a set of stairs with three landings, which leads us finally to the main floor.
“Oh wow,” I say. The room is open to a wall of glass two stories high, showing miles of water and shoreline. I’m drawn across the room as if by a siren, standing close to the glass to look and look and look. Below, the restless surf, in the distance the lowering sun and horizon. Something in me quiets. “It feels like floating, like you’re a bird.”
“Yes.”
The kitchen is situated toward the back of the room, with a big island and gleaming white walls and counters, as clean as a clinic, and I join him, sitting on a comfortable bar chair upholstered in white leather.
“Ginger or mint?” he asks. The kettle is on. His hair boasts a glossy shine, the sign of health, and now that I have time to look at him, I see that his body is lean, his waist small. He’s not much taller than me, but every inch is well made. A distant, almost forgotten part of my body stirs. Remember? it whispers.
“This is not the kitchen I would put you in,” I say.
He looks around. “It’s very white.”
I smile. “I ran a winery,” I offer. “The blending rooms were like this. All stainless and pure cleanliness.”
“What sort of kitchen would be a better setting for me, do you say?”
“Hmm. Something older, maybe. With more color?”
He nods, a faint smile on his lips. “That would be my preference.”
“Older, or more color?”
“I’d like an old house,” he says. “Edwardian. With an AGA.”
“An AGA,” I echo. “What color?”
“Oh, something blue, perhaps.” He gathers a cutting board, a knife, a knob of ginger that looks fresh and hearty. “A winery,” he says, inclining his head. “Not anymore?”
“No.” I suck my top lip into my mouth, debate telling the truth. But what the hell. I have to be real with who I am. “I’m afraid I’m fresh from rehab. Wineries are out of the question for me now.”
It startles him, but he doesn’t look away. “I’m sorry.”
The simple expression somehow slides through my defenses, and I feel a sudden, ridiculous swell of tears. The fact that I’ve lost the thing I genuinely loved in all this gets lost sometimes, but I did love making wine. I was great at it. A roar of loss sounds in the distance, and I swallow. “Thanks.”
“I’ve never drunk alcohol,” he says, “so I am not sure what you feel, but it must be difficult to lose such a business.”
“I mean, I guess.” I take a breath. “I was so bloody tired by the end that I would have done almost anything to stop.”
Again those soft, accepting eyes. Into a saucepan he grates fresh ginger. His fingers are long, tipped with oval nails. He leaves space for me to talk, which is unbelievably rare. When I don’t speak, he asks, “How long have you been out?”
“Three days,” I say, and laugh at my newbie status. “I was in for almost ninety days.”
“And how do you feel?”
I take a moment to consider. “Pretty good, honestly. Sleep is hard to come by and I can’t shake my Jelly Belly habit, but . . .” I shrug. “All things considered, I’m better.”
He smiles. “That’s good.”