“Really?” Georgia leaned forward, surprised and intrigued. This was new information. She thought for a moment. “I remember... something about being in the kitchen with you. I remember rolling out pie crust. Is that right? You put your hands over mine on the rolling pin. I remember the pie crust stuck to the counter and we had to scrape it off with a butter knife.” It was something she had not recalled before now. The heavy smoothness of the rolling pin under her fingers, Star’s firm grip over her own. The memory surprised her.
Star chuckled. “Oh, that was a disaster. I was trying to make Julia’s quiche Lorraine. It was my first time trying my hand at pie crust. Somehow, the crust turned out tough and the egg part was soggy. It was a mess. Your father opened up a can of cold beans and ate them for dinner instead. I never could quite master crusts, but I tried, Lord knows I tried so hard.” She fell quiet, a look of regret passing across her face, then she glanced at Georgia and added, “But you always had the touch. I suspected you might have a special gift in the kitchen. That’s why I gave my copy of Julia Child’s cookbook to you. I had a feeling you’d make more use of it than I ever could.”
Georgia stared at her mother in surprise. “You gave that cookbook to me?” She thought of the butter-stained volume sitting on the nightstand by her bed. She’d always assumed Star had just left the book like she’d left almost everything else in her life, abandoning it along with her family. After Star vanished,Georgia had found the cookbook on the bookshelf in her room, wedged behind the white leather children’s Bible she’d gotten from her Baptist Sunday school. She’d assumed Aunt Hannah had stuck it on the shelf while cleaning. Georgia had always loved that cookbook and often sneaked it into her bed to look at the fascinating and mysterious illustrations when she was supposed to be sleeping. She had never suspected that Star had meant for her to have it.
Star nodded. “I left it for you. I saved up all my egg money for a couple of months and bought it for myself for my birthday one year. I admired Julia Child so much. I thought she was the most strong, confident, independent woman I’d ever seen. She seemed like she was really in charge of her own life. She was my hero. I dreamed for years of getting to visit Paris. You and I used to play a game where we’d plan a trip to Paris. We’d look through the cookbook together and pick out what we’d eat when we got there. It gave me something to dream about. Gave us both something to look forward to. I hoped maybe Julia’s cookbook would help me be more like her, but turns out some things can’t be learned from a book.” She looked rueful. “Did you ever try any of those recipes from the cookbook?”
“Yes.” Georgia cleared her throat. She was dumbfounded by what Star had just told her. Star had not given her a culinary talent, but she had given her Julia and a dream of a life in Paris? How had she not remembered that before? It was a revelation. “Julia Child is why I ended up in Paris,” she explained. “That cookbook shaped the course of my life.”
Star looked surprised. “I’m glad to hear it,” she said softly. “I guess I was right about something.”
Georgia looked at her mother, astonished to discover this link between her past and her passion.
“Let me cook dinner for you tomorrow night,” she offeredspontaneously, then bit her tongue when she remembered she couldn’t taste a thing.
“Are you sure?” Star asked a little hesitantly. “I’d love to try your cooking if you’re willing.” She looked eager enough that Georgia didn’t have the heart to backpedal.
“It would be my pleasure.” Georgia smiled brightly, instantly regretting her hasty offer. It was intimidating to think of trying to cook without being able to taste anything, especially to cook an entire meal for her mother, who had never sampled anything she’d made. Too late now. She’d just prepare dishes she was very familiar with and muddle through somehow. Maybe she’d make something from Julia’s cookbook. She knew many of those recipes by heart.
“Well then,” Star said, looking pleased. “I’ll let Cole know. We’ll look forward to it.”
Star stood and started to clear the table. Georgia stood as well. “Can I help with the dishes?” she offered.
“Oh no.” Star was already reaching for the bowls. “It’ll just take me a minute. You must be exhausted.”
“Many hands make light work,” Georgia insisted, gathering the water glasses. It had been years since she’d pulled a shift as a dishwasher, but it was like riding a bicycle. You never forgot how to scrub a pot. She was looking for any opportunity to learn more about her mother, and now seemed like a good time to start.
“We can do it together,” Star acquiesced.
10
Side by sideat the wide farmhouse sink, they fell into an easy rhythm. Star turned on the crackly radio to a folk station. The Mamas and the Papas were playing. Georgia smiled and hummed along. It had been years since she’d heard songs like these. She’d been fed a steady diet of French pop and classical music with Etienne, and the restaurant kitchen was often filled with driving European techno beats. She’d forgotten the soulful quality of American folk music. It fit the mood in the kitchen, quiet and contemplative.
Georgia washed and Star dried and put away. They watched the light fade over the bay, the water shining silver in the blue shadows of evening. Georgia thought it was one of the most beautiful things she’d ever seen. Down by the water sat a tiny log structure with a cedar shake roof. Georgia hadn’t noticed it before. A light shone golden in the single window.
“That’s Cole, probably reading German philosophy and wrestling with all the world’s problems,” Star commented with a smile.
“That’s where he lives?” Georgia grabbed the dirty soup pot and squirted dish soap into it. The cabin looked hardly larger than a garden shed.
“Yes, for about five years now. I think he likes the simplicity,” Star said, drying a water glass with a thin cotton dish towel. “He needed a place to land after things went pear-shaped for him. It was about the same time Justine found out she was sick, and it worked out well to have him here.” She paused, lookingout the window. “Justine passed pretty quickly. The liver cancer was in its last stages when they caught it. He was a great help to us in those final months, and ever since she passed, he’s taken good care of me. This place has been my home for a long time, and I think it feels like home to him too.” She carried the water glasses to the cupboard and put them away.
Home. The word held such a complicated mixture of emotions for Georgia.
“It’s beautiful here. I’ve never seen anything like this island,” Georgia commented. She vigorously scrubbed the scorched bits of clam chowder from the bottom of the pot with steel wool. “It’s a world away from Texas or Paris.” They were her only points of reference.
“It’s a little slice of paradise, or as near as you can get on earth anyway,” Star agreed.
Georgia rinsed the pot and handed it dripping to Star. “It feels like it,” she said.
“It’s more than that, though,” Star continued. “This island is a safe spot for a lot of people. It’s been a refuge for me.” Star dried the pot, looking thoughtful. “Folks say there’s a special kind of magic here, that it’s in the land and the water. It has a healing energy, the kind of place that can soothe every wound and show you your true heart. This island can help lead people home.”
Georgia listened but said nothing. Dishes done, she pulled the plug on the sink of soap suds and watched the gray water funnel down the drain. There was something about Star’s description that made her feel her wistful, and she couldn’t put her finger on why. Was it her current circumstances or something deeper than that, a longing she’d been living with like an ache in the center of her chest for years, almost as long as she could remember, a longing to be known, to feel like she belonged?
“Where’s home for you?” Star asked, her pale gray-green eyeson Georgia, hesitant and curious. “Is it still Texas or do you feel like Paris is home now?”
“Neither,” Georgia replied honestly. “I don’t think I’ve ever truly felt at home anywhere.” She scrubbed down the sides of the sink vigorously. The truth was that Texas and Paris had both in their own way been mostly home or almost home, familiar, but they had never given her a sense of true belonging. She’d stopped hoping for that years ago, deciding that some people must never quite belong anywhere. She had settled for familiarity, tried to be content with it, but sometimes she still found it cold comfort. She hadn’t felt at home in almost thirty years. Not since the day she’d watched Star pull away in her Eldorado, leaving her in a cloud of red dust on that broiling August afternoon. Georgia remembered her tears making tracks in the grit coating her cheeks, running down to smudge the collar of her favorite dress, the one with rainbows on it and rickrack straps, the one Star had made just for her. The memory still stung, sharp as white vinegar on a cut.
If she were honest with herself, the last place that had felt like home was nestled in Star’s arms, enveloped in the aroma that was so distinctly her mother, something she later pegged as a combination of herbs—anise, mint, and thyme—and cannabis. She could smell it now, standing so close to Star, and it made her feel off-kilter and nostalgic. Without thought, she leaned a little closer to Star, toward that remembered feeling of safety and belonging.
