27
The next morning,Georgia wandered downstairs in her pajamas and robe, barefoot and tousled and grinning like a fool from the events of the night before. So much had happened—rediscovering her joy in the kitchen at Anemone, the revelations about Cole, and the sour delight of tasting that briny pickle. This morning, for the first time since she’d left Paris, she felt a warm glow of anticipation in the center of her chest where there had only been a cold, leaden dread. Pollen came padding up to her as she entered the kitchen and sniffed Georgia’s knee, wagging her entire backside. The room reeked of paint fumes. Georgia wrinkled her nose. “Star?”
“Georgia, there you are.” Star popped out from behind the refrigerator, which had been pulled out a couple of feet from the wall. She was holding a paintbrush and wearing an old pair of denim overalls, liberally splattered with paint. A blue bandanna was tied over her hair. The raspy strains of Bob Dylan and his harmonica filled the room. “How did it go at Anemone?” Star asked. “I got your text that you were filling in as their chef. That was kind of you. Myra’s a good, hardworking woman.”
“It was amazing!” Georgia said. She felt a little giddy from the events of yesterday. There was so much to say. Where did she start? She wanted to jump right in and grill Star about Cole, about what had happened between him and Amy, but she also was eager to tell Star about Anemone, and then there was the crunchy, sour taste of the pickle... so many things to say.
“Tell me all about it,” Star said, sliding back behind therefrigerator. “I’m repainting the kitchen, so don’t bump the walls. They’re still wet.” Her warning was muffled by the bulk of the refrigerator.
“Is there anything you’re not freshening up?” Georgia asked, glancing around her. Since Georgia had arrived, Star seemed to be in constant motion, pruning, weeding, tidying, and painting.
“Just sprucing things up. A lot got neglected over the past few years,” Star replied quickly, casually, popping her head out around the refrigerator but not looking Georgia in the eye. “This old place needs a little love and attention. But enough about that. Tell me everything.”
Sitting at the table, munching a dish of tiny gherkins she found in the refrigerator, Georgia recounted the events of the day, starting with Anemone and culminating in her ability to taste the sour flavor from the pickle. As Georgia talked, Star painted the kitchen a clean, bright white, using a roller for the big swaths and cutting in around the edges with a smaller brush. Bob Dylan accompanied Georgia’s story, wheezing his poetry in the background. When Georgia finished, she was beaming from ear to ear.
Star stopped painting for a moment and grinned, holding a wet paintbrush, eyes bright. “Sounds like our plan is working,” she said, looking pleased.
“It seems so,” Georgia confirmed. “I still need to regain the rest of the flavors, but sour is a good start. So far I’ve got bitter and sour. Now all I need are sweet, salty, and umami.” She gazed at Star, dazed and happy. “I’m so relieved,” she admitted.
Star balanced her brush on the lid of the paint can and wiped her hands with a damp rag. “I’m so glad, Georgia May,” she said with a smile. “The sky’s the limit for you now.”
“Never mind the sky. I’ll settle for Paris,” Georgia said, taking a sip of tea. Star picked up her brush and started painting again.
“Cole told me his story last night,” Georgia said casually after a few minutes of silence.
“Oh, did he?” Star glanced over at her in surprise.
“He told me about Amy and the accident.”
“Hmm.” Star nodded. “That was a real tragedy for both of them.” She painted carefully along the edge of the kitchen doorway.
“What happened after her accident? Why aren’t they together now?” Georgia had not wanted to pry further when she saw how painful the past still was for Cole, but she was so curious to know what had happened between him and Amy.
Star sighed and tucked a long curl back into her bandanna. “I guess since he told you his story, he won’t mind me telling the rest. She left him,” she said bluntly. “After the accident, they tried to make it work, but she just wanted to move on, and he was stuck with such a huge load of guilt. He was trying to do everything perfectly, I think, to make it up to her somehow, but how do you make up such a huge loss to someone you love when it’s your fault? She wanted to forgive and just move on, but he couldn’t.” Star shook her head and frowned. “So she left him. She told him she had to keep living her life even though it looked different than she’d imagined. She told him that his endless apologies and guilt were suffocating her. She told him she forgave him, and then she returned the engagement ring he’d given her and left. A few days later, he showed up here with a duffel bag and a whole load of hurt. I’ve never seen a man so smashed by grief and guilt.”
“What happened to Amy?” Georgia asked. Pollen wandered over to the table, gave a deep sigh, and slid down to settle her warm bulk on Georgia’s feet.
“She turned lemons into lemonade.” Star stood on tiptoe on a small step stool to reach the top of the doorframe, paintingthe wall above it. “She became a motivational speaker. You know, one of those folks that goes around telling their story to inspire other people? She’s real successful.”
“Wow, that’s impressive.” Georgia digested this news. So Cole was the only one stuck in the tragedy, it seemed. Amy had been able to move on. The accident had taken her ability to walk, but it had taken Cole’s ability to get on with his life. How sad was that?
“Guilt’s a tricky thing,” Star said contemplatively, dipping her brush in the gallon of paint. “If you can’t forgive yourself, you get stuck; everything around you moves on but you can’t. You’re trapped back in that moment, hoping and waiting and wishing for a different outcome that can never happen. You can’t go forward in life. Believe me, I know.”
Georgia looked at her mother, struck by Star’s words. She knew Star felt guilty for leaving. She’d said so herself. But was she still paralyzed by guilt for leaving Georgia? Was Star stuck? Georgia sensed not. Whatever had happened when she left Texas, Star had managed to find her way through to a place where she could still grow. She had deep regrets, but she wasn’t stuck. It seemed a much better way to hold the past than how Cole was dealing with it.
“You think Cole is stuck?” Georgia asked.
“I do.” Star came off the step stool and brushed her hair back from her face, leaving a smudge of white paint on her cheek. “And it’s a shame, because he’s such a good man—kind and considerate and so darn intelligent. And Lord knows he’s easy on the eyes.” She gave Georgia a meaningful look. “You two seem to be getting friendly.”
Georgia waved off the observation, trying to look casual, but she felt her face flush. “More like we’re finally getting cordial,” she corrected, hoping her flaming cheeks didn’t betray her. She ate the last gherkin in the dish. “Myra asked me if I’dconsider helping out more at Anemone, until they get a new chef,” she said, happy to change the subject.
“What did you tell her?” Star asked. She started to cut in under the upper cabinets in the kitchen, twisting her body like a pretzel across the counter to reach the spot.
“I told her I’d let her know today,” Georgia said. “I wanted to talk to you about it, see what you thought.”
“Well, do you want to do it?” Star asked with a grunt from under the cabinets.
Georgia thought about it, about the hours of sheer panic and adrenaline she’d felt yesterday, but about the exhilaration too. She glanced down at the empty dish of pickles. Maybe her newly regained ability to taste sour was a direct correlation, maybe not. But the thought of going back to Anemone gave her a nervous, happy thrill. “I think so, at least for a little while until they can find a new chef,” she said. She hesitated, feeling suddenly shy. She had told Star about the text from Michel, but she had not asked if she could stay longer at the cottage. Now, faced with the opportunity to spend more time at Anemone, she found she was not ready to leave the island or Star yet. “Would it be okay if I stayed here until I need to go back to Paris?” she asked hesitantly. “It would be probably another couple of weeks...”
