“It’s not your job,” she says, and pushes open the swinging door to the kitchen.
“I know.”
She holds up a finger and dashes toward the employee toilet. Is she going to be sick?
She is. I hear her throwing up in the tiny room. When she emerges, her face is damp, but her color is back. “That was weird,” she comments, and rubs a spot beneath her ribs. “Do you think I’ve completely wrecked my liver? My stomach really doesn’t feel right.”
“You might have done some damage,” I say gently, “but the liver is a very resilient organ. It will heal.”
“I hope so.” Her mouth twists. “Let’s get the rest of this over with. I can still smell the booze from the other room.”
We go to the office, which is too small for all three of us, so Maya goes in first and sits in the chair, while I slide in front of the desk and Kara leans on the threshold. Maya just sits there, her hands in her lap, and moves her head to look at things. She looks pale around the lips, as if she’s still sick to her stomach. “Are you okay?” I ask.
She shrugs. “He’s really very present here, isn’t he?” Her eyes catch on something on the shelf and she reaches for it, bringing down a framed photo. “Look at you two!”
It’s a photo of us when we got back together, the second time. We’re on a beach somewhere, with a strong breeze blowing my skirt and hair, tousling Augustus’s curls. He’s laughing, his arm around me, and I’m looking up at him like he hung the moon. I remember the day so clearly, the clams we ate, the things we talked about—our big dreams for our lives together, the ambition we shared to make something of ourselves.
“God, we were young,” I say. “I’m surprised he still has it.”
Kara says, “He’s always had that photo in his office.” She claps her hand on my shoulder. “He loved you best, always.”
Loved you best. The trouble is, I wanted to be the only.
The second time we got together, it was eight months after I broke up with him over his marital status. It had not been an easy stretch of time for me. I was devastated and lonely, and all the more despairing because it really felt like we were soul mates, like we were meant to be together, and it was impossible that we weren’t. If I was honest with myself, I’d expected him to leave Shanti and come to me, and he hadn’t.
My life was a treadmill of work, Rory, bed, work, Rory, bed. It seemed like it might always be that way, and as much as I loved my daughter, if I was honest, I also resented her and the way she tied me down. There were days that everything she wanted felt like an imposition—a drink of water or her hair brushed or even just attention. I wasn’t proud of it, and I worked hard not to show it, but I’m sure she sensed it. Kids are wiser than we give them credit for.
It wasn’t that I wanted to date. I didn’t even want coffee with another guy. I had rooms at the farm, and flung myself into learning the business, the cycles of planting and harvest, and figuring out ways to key into the burgeoning organic movement. In some ways that farm saved me. I grew to love the colors and flavors, loved learning how to pair herbs and spices with the brightness of radishes or the earthiness of beets. My skin grew tan from being outside in the sun all day, and Rory turned into a puppy of a child, happy and well tended, loved by everyone at the farm. At least I’d done that much for her.
But an Augustus-size hole had been blown in my life and I only lived around the edges of it. I ached for him, if not constantly, often enough that it felt like constantly. At night, I dreamed of his shining eyes and skillful hands and low laughter. After a fleeting season of happiness, I felt I would never be happy again.
In August, the regional restaurant association held an outdoor food fair. The owner of what was then Henderson Farms, a widow who had been grooming me to be her successor, let me set up our booth and sell however I wished. I loved it. To show off our harvest, I made up recipes and discovered that I had a gift for it, showcasing all my heirloom pets, golden beets and red cipollini onions and exquisite herbs that had been forgotten, like borage and clary sage. Rory stayed with a friend at the farm, and I had a ball talking to customers all day at the booth, showing off our produce, offering samples of my recipes, creating a network.
It was late on the second day when a lull in traffic allowed me to find a bottle of water and take a deep, long drink. It was hot, even in the shade of the whispering eucalyptus trees. I felt wilted, and looked forward to a nice cool shower at the motel I’d booked for myself.