I draw a bath in the claw-foot tub, the window open with a breeze coming in from the garden. I smell the herbs, mostly basil, and I start to imagine what the lasagna is going to taste like. I’m probably going to gain ten pounds being here, but I really don’t care. I’ll just have to swim a lot. When I was little and we’d go to the beach in Nantucket, my parents could barely get me out of the water. I would lie in the surf pretending to be a mermaid, or jump through the waves like a dolphin. And sometimes I’d float on my back and close my eyes, letting the ocean hold me up, the vast sky open above me, kind of like flying.
When I get back into the room I notice an old box on the table, the top of which says Luna in pencil. These must be the rest of my mother’s things Richard wanted me to have. I sit down and hold the box on my lap for a long time. Before I get to open it, I hear Julian come home. I walk to the window and watch him wheel his bike into the shed by the pool. Then he peels his bike clothes off and steps into the outdoor shower. I get a glimpse of his butt, which is smooth and hard as a rock. When he’s done, he dives into the pool, still naked. He starts to swim laps really fast, doing that special flip-turn thing. Unbelievable. As if a thirty-two-mile bike ride through the mountains weren’t enough, why don’t we swim laps afterward? I open the window and lean over, resting my elbows on the sill like a swimming coach observing my star athlete. Eventually, I get my digital camera out, the fancy one I hardly ever use, and take a shot of Julian swimming. You can’t make out his butt, but one sinewy arm is extended and the water is a rich, burning blue. He almost looks like a fish.
I walk downstairs and out the front door and take a picture of the house. It looks more like a home than anything I’ve ever known.
I’m in the kitchen drinking water when I hear Julian come out of the pool. I don’t look until a few minutes later, when I know he’ll be dressed. Surely he’s not going to walk back into the house naked?
I look out and he’s picking basil, the towel around his waist. I snap a picture of his muscular back, the basil protruding all around him. A few minutes later he comes in and says, “Okay, girl, are you ready to be my sous-chef?”
I put the camera down and smile. “Sure. But you’re going to have to put something on other than that towel.”
He laughs, and for a brief instant his eyes sparkle. They’re almost as green as the basil he’s holding. He hops into the small bathroom off the kitchen and comes out a couple seconds later in a pair of shorts and an old T-shirt that probably used to be red but has faded to more of a salmon color. I remember my mother’s good friend Ben, a fashion designer from London, who would always describe his collection with fruits and vegetables. “Lots of eggplant this season,” he would say, “and limes.” At first I couldn’t figure out if he was a designer or a chef.
Julian plops a large bag of artichokes onto the table, then produces a pot that looks like it was made for a horse.
“Okay, we have to boil all these and then scrape out the hearts.”
“Sounds painful.”
He smiles. While the water boils I tell him about Oliver, and how he sort of scraped out my heart.
“Boys will do that,” he says. “When I was in high school, I was in love with my next-door neighbor, Roddy Johnson. On the night of the prom we were going to elope, and go to the Chateau Marmont on Sunset Boulevard.”
“That’s where my dad stays!” Suddenly I feel like an overanxious kid. I tell myself to tone it down.
“Yes, well, what can I say? I had good taste at an early age.” He gently starts to drop in the artichokes. “Anyway, he stood me up, so I went to the prom anyway, only to find him dancing with Jackie Bell. A pretty girl if you could get past the underbite. Broke my heart. I sat under a table the whole time.”
“Somehow it’s hard for me to picture you brokenhearted.”
“Ah, that’s where you’re wrong, sweet thing. Everyone,” he proclaims, putting the lid on the giant pot, “gets their heart broken at least once, some repeatedly. It’s a fact of life.”
“So, was that the only time? For you?”
“That was the one that really struck me. If I saw Roddy Johnson today, I’d probably kick him in the balls.”
The phone rings and Julian expertly multitasks while zesting a lemon.
“Ciao. Eight o’clock, dear. Tuscany time, not Fiji time. Okay, ciao bella.” He hangs up and moves from zesting to washing some lettuce. I’ve been assigned to chopping basil. “That was Isabella. She’s a rock star in Canada. She’s spent the last two years in Fiji and her sense of time and responsibility is, well, let’s just say ‘off.’ Not that rock stars are ever on time, but she’s learning, I suppose. She’s got a husband who’s her polar opposite. The man, bless his heart, has maps and codes and lists for everything he does. When he’s not around, you really have to stay on top of her.”
I give him my first pile of finely chopped basil.
“Nicely done! We’re going to make a chef out of you yet. Now, I always say, a little wine while you cook helps bring out the love in the dish.” He pours himself a half glass of red wine, and for me just a taste. There’s no label on the bottle.
“It’s from our neighbor’s vineyard. The stuff is mind-blowing.” He takes a small sip, swishes it around his mouth, then swallows with a smile. “It’s all blackberry all the time. Jam in a glass.”
I taste it and try to swish it around like he did but spill a little over my lip. After the artichokes are boiled, Julian takes them off the stove and puts on a CD of Italian opera. Maybe it’s the dramatic and triumphant music, but for a moment I feel like a real chef. He’s already cooked the noodles, so we begin the process of layering the lasagna. Ricotta, mozzarella, artichoke, tomato paste, basil, sweet Italian sausage, and so on. I’m a little lightheaded and starting to get really hungry. When it’s all done, Julian says, “We’ll finish the salad later. Let’s go upstairs and make ourselves pretty.”
I put my hair up and decide to apply a little of the mascara Janine gave me before I left. “You never know,” she said. I’ve never been one for makeup, but it does seem to highlight my eyes well. They’re far apart, like my mother’s. I used to think it was freaky, but people tell me it’s exotic. Whatever it is, the mascara helps. I can’t decide what to wear—everything I have seems too unsophisticated. After some time, I settle for a gray skirt with a simple flowing top.
Back downstairs, Julian’s slicing some peaches for the dessert. He pours us each some Pellegrino, and without fail, I think of Dad. I remember when I was in sixth grade and I got really sick. My mother was away on a shoot and Dad flew home from his filming in Vancouver. At the time we had a nanny who cooked us strange food and smelled like peppermint. Tile loved her because she sang to him. When Dad came home he served me soup in bed and forced me to eat crackers. Later, I read that it cost the movie $150,000 for the delay. That’s a pretty expensive stomach flu. But I was glad he thought I was worth it. I realize he has always been so perfect in my eyes, and part of me is still wondering what Richard and Julian’s secret look was about.
“You, my friend, have one more job.” Julian hands me four yellow tomatoes and says, “The size of a quarter.”
I start to dice, curling my fingers like I saw on the Food Network. Julian secretly admires my technique.
“I saw that box of stuff Richard left for me. Did you know my mother well? Was she ever, you know, here with you?”
He stops his own chopping and his eyes settle on me.
“Standing in that very spot.”
I start to feel very hot, like my skin is on fire. “I’m just gonna step outside for a minute.”
I walk past the pool and see the hills beyond, dappled with the last light of day. The edges of the trees and the fences have an orange glow. I want to scream. How can I be mad at her? Right now, I am. For leaving me behind in this world, for screwing up what she had with my father—which I happen to know was something special.
For being the beautiful woman everyone always remembers, the one whose footsteps I will always walk in. I want to experience this on my own, but she is everywhere, and in everything I do.
When I come back in, Julian gets all wide-eyed.
“Darling, come here.”
He leads me into the powder room and sits me on the little chair, dabs a tissue with warm water and cleans up the mascara that has run down my face. Then he sits down on the closed toilet lid and says, “I miss her too. I’d see her after a year and it would feel like yesterday. That’s how you know when you really connect with someone. You can just click back on track.”
I stand up and check my teeth.
“Did you know Cole?”
“Met him a few times. He has a villa a few towns away. Seemed very nice.”
“That’s what everyone says! I mean, it’s kind of hard for me to blame him. But at the end of the day, someone has to be blamed, right? My dad was there, but he never would have been there if Cole … Oh my god, Julian, I’m sorry I’m going on and on and we have mangoes to marinate or whatever.”
He laughs, and the sound of it makes me feel better for an instant. But when we get back into the kitchen, it’s my mother’s brother’s house. I stand where my mother stood, probably drinking from the same glass. I start to sing the lyrics from an old eighties song: “Always something there to remind me.…”
Richard comes in, kisses me on the forehead, and says, “Did you get the box?”
“Yes, but I haven’t opened it yet.”
“No rush. We can do it together if you like.”
“Okay.”
He puts his briefcase down and says, “I’m off to wash.”
Julian watches him go up the stairs and smiles. He pulls me into the hallway while he fixes a flower arrangement. “You know, that uncle of yours, it’s been nine years and he’s still, if I may quote R.E.M., ‘my everything.’ ”
“How come I only met you a couple of times?”
“I was on tour for four years. Richard and I would always meet in London. But I came to the island once. You were about nine. Do you remember?”
I try to think back.
“Yes! You had longer hair, though, right?”
“Frightfully so. You had a friend there … Rachel?”
Figures he would remember her name.
“Yes.”
“She kept grilling me about Richard. I finally had to come out to her.”
“She has that effect on people. I’m just so happy to be away from her, that seems like years ago already.”
“That’s the right attitude. Moving on …”
“Yes. Just not quite sure where.”
“To the top, babe,” he says, and we clink glasses.