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She mutters something, rubbing her eyes as I pull up to the garage.
Cora’s house sits in the mountains outside Angel Fire, New Mexico. It’s an eclectic, rambling mix of timber and stucco surrounded by acres of pine, spruce, and aspen. Not the place you’d expect to find the widow of Michael Sinclair, one of Hollywood’s most celebrated directors, but it fits her. It’s the place she brought me when she plucked me out of my last stint in foster care after my father was arrested. It’s full of hard memories—trying to find my place in a world of expectations and consequences was challenging—but lots of good memories too.
I’m going to need all of them to remember who I am.
“I’m not a meet-the-family kind of girl,” she mumbles, staring at the house. She looks a little pale.
“No shit.” The glare she sends me makes it clear I’m not being helpful.
“Do we need to fake it in front of her?”
I couldn’t fake it if I wanted to. The things I’m feeling are too real. “No. I’ll tell her. She doesn’t watch much TV or read the tabloids, so she probably won’t know you.”
She doesn’t look relieved or disappointed. More like mildly anxious as I lead her through a gate and a small garden to the front door. I have a key, but I ring the bell, and it only takes half a minute for Cora to open the door.
“Gabe!” A smile breaks wide on her face. Her apron is dusted in flour, and her long white hair is pulled into a low ponytail. She’s sixty-five, older than my mother by more than a decade. They weren’t close as children and that didn’t change over the years, but she welcomed me in when I needed a home and gave me a family.
She’s glowing with happiness as she pulls me into a hug. It’s soothing, being in her presence. I feel better already, despite the guilt hanging around my neck.
Cora pulls back, her eyes kind and warm on me before moving to Ash. “And you brought a friend!”
Ashley’s smile wobbles, but she holds out her hand as I introduce her simply as “Ashley.” Cora goes in for the kill, wrapping her arms around her before pulling away and staring at her in that way she has. Like she can see into your soul. It’s unnerving, but Ashley stares back with a carefully guarded expression.
“Come on,” Cora says in a soft voice. “It’s past time I opened a bottle of wine and you both look exhausted.” The invitation is meant for Ashley because Cora tells me to go get our things and pick whatever bedrooms we want—her way of not being presumptuous.
The house has three levels, built into the side of the mountain, so the main entrance is on the second floor. I take my things around the back to the little studio apartment that makes up the first floor. It can be accessed from the house or the outside and has a small kitchen, a full bath, and a bedroom. It’s been mine since I turned sixteen. I open some windows to air it out before heading back to the car for Ash’s things.
I put her in the bedroom on the second floor, farthest from my room.
Cora’s kneading dough in the kitchen when I walk in. The evening light shines through the windows of the atrium. A quarter of the second floor is a giant indoor garden that opens onto the kitchen. Soft folk music plays over the sound system. I catch a glimpse of Ash in the living room beyond, sitting on the tile floor, a glass of wine in one hand, a string in the other.
“Did you hand her wine and a kitten?” I ask quietly when I pass Cora on my way to get my glass, since she didn’t pour one for me. I hadn’t pictured Ash as a pet person, but I guess if I had to, I’d pick cats for her.
“I did.” Cora nods, blowing a strand of hair from her face. “She needs that more than she needs my conversation right now.” Her eyes narrow at me. “Or yours, I think.”
I’ve had about all I can stomach of Ashley’s opinions on my suitability for the Warwick role and Nic fucking Fontana. I might be on the way to hating that man.
“No recovering raccoons?” I ask, changing the subject. “Healing hawks? Broken-winged birds?” There’s no sign of any other animal in the house.
Cora collects broken things and heals them with love and determination. Stray cats, injured birds…the house can look like an animal rehab center at times. It’s partly why living in LA didn’t work for her.If I can’t see my husband anyway, because he’s always at work, why not live where I’m happy?In between films, Michael came home, but the house was always filled with her laughter, whether he was there or not.
Maybe there was another reason Cora didn’t want to live in LA. Maybe she knew. Or suspected.
Cora always seemed at peace, content and confident about her place in the world. In her marriage. She couldn’t have known her husband was a cheating liar.
“There’s a sanctuary in town now,” she says. “I volunteer four days a week.”
I can’t remember if she told me the last time I called. My life has gotten exponentially busier recently. The last few weeks have been a vacation of sorts after my last film wrapped. Not that any part of it has been relaxing.
A soft giggle comes from the living room. Ashley doesn’t strike me as someone who giggles easily or often, so I lean back on my stool, trying to catch a glimpse of her.
Cora clears her throat and points to a basket. “Can you go out in the garden? Whatever you can find for a salad.”
Like a dutiful nephew, I do as I’m told. Honestly, a salad would be good. Cora’s a vegetarian and her salads are incredible. Between her greenhouse, her raised beds, and the atrium off the kitchen, she grows almost everything. When I come back, Cora’s in the living room, a bowl upturned over her dough.
“Wash those, please,” she calls out. “And start chopping.”
Cora is gifted with the ability to see what people need and the perseverance to give it to them whether they like it or not. Right now, this space she’s giving me and Ashley—I love it. I need it. The muscles in my jaw and neck relax as I chop tomatoes. I can breathe again, and in the space, memories come back.
