Page 46 of Memories of the Lost

An unexpected sting of tears rose beneath her eyelids, and she looked away. “Maybe.” But more than that, she thought,This just doesn’t happen, not like this, some beautiful being dropping into your life, falling in love with you at first sight, and then it comes to something. It can’t come to anything.“You live very far away.”

“I do. They have invented this thing called planes.”

She shook her head. “That sounds awful. Being with you like this and then—”

“What? Longing for each other?” He smiled, and she saw the slightly crooked canine tooth that made him seem so human. “Imagine what the reunions will be like.”

Wishing she could believe, she turned into his chest, breathed in the smell of his skin, the crispness of hair against her forehead. “I just wish you didn’t have to go so soon.”

“Me, too.”

“When is it?”

“My flight is Saturday morning, at seven a.m.”

She wanted to ask him to stay a little longer, but that was a suggestion that should come from him. Instead, she curled closer. “Are you hungry?”

“I will be, but I’m not right now.”

“Let’s nap.”

He gathered her close, and that was just what they did.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Wulfecombe

During the tangled days of her addiction, when all else was lost and she had no sense of who she was or how she would keep living, Sage had taken refuge in kitchen work. The ordinary business of cutting carrots into rounds, slicing mushrooms into slivers, and chopping cabbage gave her hands something to do, her mind a place to rest, if only for a moment. The smell of dill, pungent and sharp, or the more luxurious depth of garlic brought her body into the moment, into the now, where she was.

At that time, she was too broken and full of shame to return home, so she chopped and learned to stir and fry and combine, learned that bits of this and bits of that, unremarkable on their own, could create something beautiful and nutritious. Sometimes, the dishes gave her an appetite of her own, and sometimes she could even eat them. In this way, little by little, she was able to heal.

When she’d healed enough, she returned to find the woman at the chocolate shop, who seemed unsurprised that Sage had returned. She apprenticed to her, all the while cooking at cafés and restaurants. When at last she could face her mother, she made a box of the most beautiful chocolates she was capable of creating, got on the train with her meager belongings, and went home.

In the box had been a selection of her own inventions and some she’d learned from the chocolatier, who had shown Sage the layers and science and timing required to produce beautiful chocolate.

For her return home, she’d made strawberry rhubarb and coconut lime, robed caramel in her own secret recipe, dipped cherries and mangos in dark chocolate, and formed thin crunchy bars studded with chips of almonds. Things she remembered her mother loved.

Clare, being herself, accepted the gift in the way Sage meant it, as an expression of her remorse. Each chocolate contained her tears. Each contained her hope. Some held her losses and her sorrow.

In a household where lame rabbits and broken birds, blind dogs and three-legged cats, were enfolded without comment, Sage, too, was embraced. She took up residence in her old bedroom, overlooking the fields of carrots and cabbages, and there saved enough money to buy her own equipment and open her own shop.

She’d cooked herself straight, and brewed chocolate to bring herself alive. This morning, she’d assembled treats for her father while the baby in her belly turned somersaults and gurgled most uncomfortably. They’d chosen not to find out what the sex was, though Sage assumed the child would be a girl. They all did. What else would two women bring into the world but another?

Which made her sister Meg laugh. “Careful! You’ll have a boy just so the universe can balance things out.”

This morning, she was bringing a care package to her father. Technically, he was her stepfather, as her mother had left her biological father when she was quite small. She didn’t remember him.

Levi had entered their lives when Sage was seven. He was a widower, sad and lonely, having come to the west to take up a farm veterinary practice where his sad children, missing their mother, might breathe fresh air and grow vigorously. Amelia was seven, same as Sage, Meg fourteen and the most resistant to Clare, who had mothering to spare. Meg had kept herself aloof until a few years ago, but Sage and Amelia took to each other like litter mates, tumbling through the countrysideand the farms with their father, doing chores around the house with Clare. A few years later, the boys were born, two in three years.

Sage let herself into the gate, taking care not to let out the animals, the goose who couldn’t fly, the hare who couldn’t hop, the dog who couldn’t see but greeted her with a howl, nonetheless. He stood at the top of the steps that led up from the road, his entire black end wagging, the house rising up behind him, much grander outside than it was inside. Tulips bloomed against the gold stone.

“Good morning, George,” she said, patting his head.

Levi was in the garden, scattering feed for goats and chickens and whoever else. The lame hare, nearly two feet tall, followed the big man, along with George, who’d come around with Sage. “Hello, love,” he said when he saw her. “Look at you—that baby is growing like a melon!”

She chuckled and patted her bump, rolling her hand down and up. “Vigorous, too. She’s been kicking me for hours.”

Levi kissed her head. “That’s a good sign.”