Star popped out from under the counter like a jackrabbit from a hole, her eyes creasing into crescents of happiness. “I’d love that,” she said simply. “This is your home now too, Georgia May. Stay as long as you like.”
•••
A few minuteslater in her bedroom upstairs, Georgia got dressed for the day. Now that she’d made the decision to stay and help out at Anemone, she felt excited to get started. Whoknew what might happen in the extra days or weeks she was going to spend on the island? It was thrilling to contemplate the possibilities. For so long, she’d had her path laid out for her, working her way through her life like a paint-by-number coloring book, always striving for the next thing, working hard to color inside the lines and always connecting the dots, one to the next, to painstakingly create the life she’d dreamed of. To not know what was going to happen next, even for a few days, made anticipation bubble up in her chest like a glass of Veuve Clicquot. The unknown felt unexpectedly liberating.
While she got ready, Georgia poked around YouTube on her phone, searching for a video. In a few seconds, she’d found it, an inspirational talk by paralyzed former Miss California Amy Hannigan. She watched the video while she brushed her teeth and tried to tame her curls at the bathroom sink. Amy was as cute as ever, with peppy energy and a gleaming smile as she addressed a group of high school students from her motorized wheelchair. Georgia watched the entire clip avidly, marveling at the woman’s ability to overcome adversity. She really was inspirational. Georgia could see why Cole had loved her so deeply. Maybe still loved her. The thought brought an unexpected pang to her heart. She brushed it away. She was concerned for Cole as a friend, she told herself firmly. Nothing more. But she could still feel the rasp of his cheek against her mouth. She pressed her finger to her lips, in remembrance or admonition, she couldn’t quite decide. A few moments later when the video was over, she clicked off her phone. It was painful to watch Amy in her wheelchair getting on with her life, doing something productive in the world while Cole was so very stuck.
On impulse, she slid open the bathroom window, leaning out until she could see Cole’s cabin down by the bay. Shewondered what he was doing, shamelessly picturing him shirtless with those great abs, reading German philosophy, all brooding and conflicted. For a moment, she was half-tempted to march across the grass to the cabin, knock on his door, show him the video of Amy, and demand that he forgive himself and move on with his life. The other half of her was tempted to go down there and simply throw her arms around his neck and kiss him until he forgot the hurt and the grief, until his arms and thoughts were so full of her that he had no room to carry guilt or shame. But as soon as they came, she squashed both inclinations... It was not her job to fix Cole. Only he could do that. And no matter what she felt for him, she told herself firmly as she shut the window, the truth was that she was headed back to Paris soon. These feelings could go nowhere.
28
The next twoweeks passed in a happy blur. Each morning, Georgia spent an hour or two with Star, having breakfast and tea, puttering around the cottage and grounds, helping with repair projects, and gardening. As they worked, they shared about their lives. Star told her more stories of her early years—of growing up with Emma and Helen, and her memories of Georgia as a baby, a toddler, a precocious preschooler. A few times, Star briefly alluded to her stepfather, comments that chilled Georgia to the bone with their matter-of-fact reference to things no child should have to go through. Every day, Georgia walked away from their time together with a much clearer picture of her own lineage, her mother’s life growing up, and some of the wounds Star still carried from her past. But now Star held them with grace, peacefully, like old broken bones that still ached but did not cripple. They did not talk about the reason Star had left Texas. Georgia still held the question in her heart, but found she could move forward in getting to know Star with it still unanswered, at least for now.
In turn, Georgia told Star more about her life after she left the ranch—culinary school, those hard early years in Paris, all the kitchens she’d worked in, the quirks and foibles of the kitchen staff at each place, her happiest memories. Star especially loved hearing about Paris, and Georgia told her everything she could think of, aware that she had gotten to fulfill a dream that hadnever come true for Star. Slowly but surely, they filled in the gaps for each other, getting to know the contours of the years they had missed. Those morning hours felt suspended in time—precious and fleeting. They both were well aware that Georgia’s days on the island were numbered.
At the end of her first week at Anemone, Georgia texted Michel a gorgeous photo of one of her entrées, a plate of fermented potato gnocchi with local salmon fillet and house-made seaweed kimchi on the side.
A few minutes later, Michel replied withÇa a l’air délicieux.
Translation: “It looks delicious.”
Georgia studied his brief text. He gave no update on the competition or when she needed to return to Paris. The clock was still ticking down the minutes and hours and days until the competition, but surprisingly, she found she did not mind not knowing any more details. She wanted to preserve this time for as long as she could—the simple, easy mornings with Star followed by the exhilarating, exhausting lunch and dinner shifts at Anemone. She had barely seen Cole since their night in Roche Harbor. He was at work when she was with Star, and then she was at Anemone until late every night, coming home exhausted to fall straight into bed. Star had lent Georgia her Subaru to drive to and from the restaurant, so she did not need to seek him out for a ride anymore. They were on different schedules, and there didn’t seem to be any good reason for their paths to cross. Which disappointed her more than she was willing to admit.
Despite not seeing Cole, Georgia was having a ball, cooking every day with Myra and the staff, experimenting, finding her footing. She felt a strange sort of reluctance when she thought of it all ending. She chalked it up to how badly things had gone when she left Paris. Of course, it made sense to be a little nervous thinking about returning to the scene of her disgrace.
“I’ll wait to think about leaving until I hear details from Michel,” she told herself. “For now, I’ll concentrate on getting the last three flavors back.”
If she could do that, she would be ready for the competition. Then she could go back to Paris and get on with her life.
•••
On Georgia’s firstMonday off, Cole showed up for dinner with Billy, Justine’s former partner and the manager of the shellfish farm, and a large pail of glistening blue-black mussels fresh from the bay.
“Miss Georgia, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” Billy told her, shaking her hand enthusiastically. He was short and stout, clad in butterscotch-colored Carhartt bib overalls that strained over his tummy and a fisherman’s hat pulled low over his brow. He looked about sixty with wiry gray hair sprouting from under the cap and a bushy beard to match. “Cole told me you were here visiting Star.” He eyed her shrewdly. “I’m glad you’re here. She needs all the help she can get at a time like this.”
Puzzled, Georgia opened her mouth to ask Billy what he meant, but Star interrupted them, requesting volunteers to help with dinner prep.
They all pitched in. Billy whipped up a simple but delicious-smelling supper of mussels in white wine while Georgia contributed a loaf of crusty leftover bread she had brought home from Anemone and made a French balsamic dressing for the green salad Star put together. Cole set the places, and they ate clustered around the kitchen table while Billy regaled them with wild tales of his younger days on an Alaskan fishing trawler. Pollen lay under the table, hopeful that someone would drop a mussel or a bite of bread. Georgia forced down a few mussels in broth to be polite, and devoured a dish of pickled onions, capers, andpeppers. It was still a struggle to make herself eat anything that tasted bitter, but she comforted herself with the knowledge that at least one more flavor had come back. She had never eaten so many pickled items in her life, relishing the taste of the sour brine each time.
It was an easy, pleasant evening, the kitchen windows steamed over from the fragrant, briny broth, rain pattering on the roof. Since he walked in the door, Georgia had been overly alert to Cole’s presence. She tried to act casual, to avoid glancing in his direction, but she was achingly aware of his every word or movement. She had missed him.
Stop it, she scolded herself.This can go nowhere.But it did no good. She might as well have been a radio tuned to the “Dr.Cabot Cole Montgomery” station.
After dinner, Billy challenged them to a game of Scrabble. They quickly cleared the table.
“It’s been years since I played this,” Star said, laying out the Scrabble board.
“It was Justine’s favorite game,” Billy noted. “We played most evenings together when the oyster season was slow. She always managed to beat me.”
“I never won a game against her,” Cole confessed with a rueful smile. “We’d play every time I visited and I finally just resigned myself to always losing.”
They crowded around the table and began the game. Star was a decent player who usually managed to score at least ten points. Cole deliberated far too long on every turn, but came up with obscure words like “qat,” which turned out to be a shrub from Africa, and “fozy,” which meant puffy or fat. Star or Georgia challenged him every time, but he was never wrong. Georgia, for her part, struggled to recall words in English. She’d spent too long learning French vocabulary for English to come easily to heranymore. She scored pitifully, although she was enjoying herself. If she were honest, she was just enjoying being a scant yard away from Cole. Billy proved to be an expert Scrabble player. He had the official two-letter-word list memorized, and despite using the smallest and simplest words, he scored the highest every turn, which pleased him to no end. “Sometimes the simplest things are best,” he explained, hitching up his overalls and happily scoring twenty-two points for the word “za.”
On Cole’s second-to-last turn, he placed the word “crave” on the board, glancing at Georgia and quickly away. She looked down at her tiles, feeling a telltale warmth flush her cheeks. Surely, that was a coincidence? Star played and then it was Georgia’s turn. She took her time, deliberating. It was cozy in the kitchen, redolent with wine and garlic, the sound of spitting rain hitting the windows. There was a sense of good-natured competition around the table. She was reluctant for the evening to end. She laid down her tiles. Cole’s gaze flicked down to her word, then up at her sharply. She’d played the word “kiss.”
“My, this game is heating up,” Star commented, shrewdly glancing between Cole and Georgia.
Cole hunched over, running his fingers through his hair. Finally, he put down the word “ache.”
