She thought briefly of Cole. They had ended on such strained terms. She cared for him, had been falling in love with him, if she were honest with herself, but would he even want to see her again after their last heated exchange? She had no idea. It scared her a little to think of leaving Paris and returning to the island with no assurances, no idea how things would work out. But how could she do otherwise? She already knew the answer. She pulled out her phone and sent a quick text message to Michel asking if she could meet with him as soon as possible. Despite the risks, despite the unknowns, she knew in her heart what she needed to do.
•••
“What do youmean you’re not going to take the position?” Phoebe asked in dismay a few hours later. She’d gotten home shortly after Georgia had returned from meeting with Michel, and Georgia had told her the news. “Isn’t this what you’ve wanted for literally your whole life?” She sounded completely baffled.
Georgia poured a glug of chilled rosé into a wineglass and handed it to Phoebe. “It was,” she said calmly. “But it isn’t anymore.”
Phoebe plopped down on the sofa. She was wearing a white leather minidress crisscrossed with chrome zippers and a pair of platform go-go boots in the same white leather. After an intense day at work, her hair was sagging slightly from its high, tight ponytail that cascaded down her back. It was a ’60s space-age vibe that she somehow totally managed to pull off. Apparently, the perfect outfit for a photo shoot at Versailles.
“I don’t understand,” she said, taking a large swallow of wine. “What changed?”
“I don’t really know how to explain it,” Georgia replied, sinking down on the sofa next to Phoebe with her own glass of wine. She felt strangely calm. “It just... didn’t feel right anymore. Michel made the offer and I pictured myself in the kitchen of that restaurant and it felt like a prison sentence, like I would be signing my life away. I realized I’d been working toward having my own kitchen my whole life as a way to prove something to myself, to Star, to my dad. To prove that I was good enough, that I was worthy somehow. And after my visit to the island, after connecting with my mom and having her finally tell me what really happened when I was little...” She shrugged. “I don’t feel like I need to prove myself now. I feel free to do the thing I really want to do, to just be me. And I’m not sure what that is just yet, but I know what it is not. And it’s not being head chef at La Lumière Dorée.”
Phoebe sat back, still looking stunned. “So what are you going to do now?”
Georgia gave a little laugh. “I don’t have any idea. Isn’t that crazy? I’ve always had a plan. Since I was ten years old I’ve had a plan. And now I think I’m just going to wing it. I know I don’t want to stay in Paris.” She was clear on that point. “I’m going back to the island.”
“Have you told your mom yet?” Phoebe asked cautiously.
Georgia hesitated, then shook her head. “I left in such a mess, I’m not quite sure how to tell her I’m coming back. I think I may just go... and figure out what to say when I get there.” She paused. “I know I’m not done there. I need to go back. I don’t want it to end like this. I want to be with my mom for whatever time she has left.”
Phoebe blew out a long, steadying breath. “Wow, this day did not go like I thought it was going to,” she commented.
“Tell me about it,” Georgia said dryly. Their eyes met and they both burst out laughing.
“So you’re leaving Paris...” Phoebe began.
“And going to the island,” Georgia finished.
Phoebe raised her glass. “Here’s to unexpected endings,” she said with a grin.
“And new beginnings,” Georgia added. They clinked glasses in a toast.
“Paris will miss you,” Phoebe said, sobering and giving Georgia a searching look. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
Georgia nodded, taking a sip of wine. “So do I.”
•••
By the timeGeorgia stopped to eat dinner a couple of hours later—a takeaway salad and margherita pizza Phoebe brought home—her departure from Paris was all arranged. She had booked a ticket for a flight out of Charles de Gaulle Airport the following afternoon, heading to Seattle. She’d used the last of her earnings from Anemone to pay for the flight. If going back to the island did not work out as she hoped, she had no idea what she would do. She would be broke, homeless, jobless... she didn’t allow herself to think about that. She was acting on pure instinct.
She could not quite explain it, but that omelet had clarified everything. Paris was still beautiful, but it did not call to her.What was calling her now was a remote speck of land in the cold Salish Sea, the cottage that finally felt like home for the first time in her life, and Star and Cole—the two people she wanted to be with more than anything else. She was following her instincts and going where her heart was leading her. The thought made her heart flutter with equal parts excitement and apprehension.
She tried to think about the practicalities of her decision. All that she owned was in her two suitcases sitting by the futon. She hadn’t even really unpacked. Was there anything else she needed to do before she left Paris?
On her phone, she made a little list of any loose ends she needed to tie up. Pick up a thank-you gift at Ladurée for Phoebe for her hospitality. Order her shuttle from Sea-Tac Airport to the San Juan Island ferry. In the end it was just a few things. Was it really that simple, to leave so many years of her life behind?
She stopped to think for a minute. Was there anything else she needed to do, anything she needed to bring closure to? And then a thought struck her, one that curdled her stomach with dismay.
“Oh no,” she murmured. She spent a good twenty minutes trying to talk herself out of the idea, but in the end it was no use. With a sinking heart, she finally acquiesced. There was one place she needed to return to before she left Paris. And it was the last place in the world she wanted to go.
38
The kitchen smelledthe same. Sizzling butter, white wine, tarragon and fennel, a whiff of fish, the yeasty odor of fresh bread. Georgia stepped through the back door of La Pomme d’Or during the busy dinner rush and inhaled deeply. It all felt so familiar. Her appearance in the doorway took a minute to register with the staff. There was a ripple of surprised murmurs, and then the bustle of the kitchen fell silent, every head turning in her direction.
“Bonsoir,” Georgia said hesitantly, trying to muster her courage. It felt like stepping into a lion’s den. She looked around. Celine was staring at her in shock, a bunch of fresh herbs in one hand and a large chef’s knife in the other. Cyril was deboning fillets of fish. He stopped when he saw her and glared, then uttered a string of very colorful profanities in French. Ismael was stirring a large pot of the soup du jour. He startled, his mouth hanging open, when he saw her. The soup smelled like the recipe she’d invented in this very kitchen—spring peas, shallots, and cream. She felt a touch of nostalgia as she took in the orderly buzz of activity and the familiar smells of the kitchen. She had enjoyed many good years in this kitchen, up until the very end.
“We have a full house tonight,” Damien called as he pushed through the door from the dining room, then faltered at the sight of her. “Georgia? You returned?” He looked thunderstruck.
