“What? No! Where is she? At home?”
“Yes. I’m almost there.”
“I’m coming, too,” she says, and there’s no dissuading her when she takes that tone. “Should I get anything? Watermelon, maybe?”
“Are the girls there?”
“No. They went to day camp this morning.”
“Nice. Could you possibly make some more of that limeade? It was good.”
I hear laughter when I get out of the car at Belle l’été, and follow the sound through an arched wooden gate down a flagstone path to the pool area. Maya sits with a man at the glass table in the shade of the pergola, the pair of them bent over a backgammon board. I’m struck by her ease, a body posture I don’t often see, and as I round the pool to the side of the patio, I see that there’s something particular about them. It takes me a moment to pull it in—they have the body language of a long-term couple, as if they belong together. A strange emotion rises in me over that, confusion and a sense of loss and jealousy.
Until he raises his head, I don’t realize that he’s the doctor from the horrible modern house down the road, the husband of an actress who drowned not long ago. He sees me as I see him, and he raises a hand. “Hello.”
Maya looks up, and her expression is confused. “Meadow!” She stands to give me a one-armed hug, and I smell sweat and old coffee. Her eyes are tired. “What are you doing here?”
“I heard about your broken wrist.” A bright pink cast covers her arm to the elbow. “What happened?”
“A work accident,” she says, holding up the cast. “I swear.” She lifts her chin toward the man. “Ayaz will vouch for me. He was there.”
I glance at him, feeling another wave of that loss and the worry their body language gave me. Her sobriety is too new for a relationship. “I believe you. Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I’m fine, honestly.” She glances at the board, then at the man, as if they were carrying on a conversation I interrupted.
I turn to him, holding out a hand, gathering details about him from his face. Weariness around his eyes, his mouth. A high, intelligent brow. “Meadow Beauvais,” I say. “You’re the doctor, right? I remember when you moved in eight or ten years ago, but I’m not sure we ever officially met.”
“Doctor?” Maya echoes. “I thought you were a writer.”
“Both,” he says, standing to shake my hand respectfully. “Dr. Ayaz Kartal,” he says. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Did you call her?” Maya asks him, pointing to me.
“No.”
“It was Norah,” I say, twisting my mouth at the irony. “She thought you might want some company.”
“Ah. Sit down, Meadow.”
“How did Norah know?”
She glances at the man. “Long story, but you’re here. Thank you.”
“Perhaps I’ll take my leave,” he says.
“Oh, don’t,” Maya says, and there’s a note to it that pierces me. How could they have strong feelings in only a day or two?
And yet . . . he hesitates, standing with his body half turned toward her, even as his words say he’s leaving, all his energy directed toward Maya. Everything about him is urbane and well tended, his linen shirt, the expensive belt, and although I would not call him handsome, he’s compelling.
“Don’t worry about me,” I say, taking my cue. “I’ll get settled.” I pause on my way into the house. “Rory is coming in a little bit, bringing some limeade. You should stay and have some, Dr. Kartal.”
“I really must be going.”
Maya gives me a look, but says nothing, and humming under my breath, I head into the house. From the kitchen, I pause and look through the frame of the windows to the pair of them. Maya’s body language is completely open, fully trusting. He moves a little closer as she speaks, and his body faces her, his head bent down to hear what she’s saying. A hand falls on her arm, and I expect them to kiss any second. Instead, he nods, straightens, and then gives a little wave.
Not good. Not good at all.
The last thing she needs is a boyfriend right now. I read somewhere that a person in recovery is supposed to be sober for a year before she has a relationship. It hasn’t even been four months. As I bustle around the kitchen, my mind spins out a dozen disastrous scenarios—heartbreak and fights and even things being thrown, all ending in the same place, with Maya drunk and swaying and sick.