The Provence Cure for the Brokenhearted Read Free

natural correlation, of course—what could make you want to cement love more than the reminder of life’s fragility?
    “She’s up at the house,” he said; then he turned to me and added, “trying to fly under the radar.”
    “How’s she doing?” I asked. Charlotte was sixteen and going through a punk phase that alarmed Elysius, though
punk
was outdated. They had new terms for everything now.
    “She’s studying for the SATs, but, I don’t know, she seems a little … morose. Well, I worry about her. I’m her father. Iworry. You know what I mean.” He looked at me like a coconspirator. He meant that I understood parenting from the inside out, in a way that Elysius didn’t. It was something he could never admit except in this sly way.
    “What’s this one supposed to be?” Abbot asked. All of the paintings were abstract, chaotically so, but Abbot had stalled in front of an especially tumultuous one with big heavy lines, desperate and weighted. It was as if there were a bird trapped somewhere in the painting—a bird that wanted out.
    Daniel looked at the painting. “A boat far off with full sails,” he said. “And loss.”
    “You’ve got to cheer up!” I said to Daniel quietly.
    He put a hand on my shoulder. “You’re one to talk,” he whispered. “Are you designing?” I always felt honored that Daniel saw my work as a pastry chef as art. He wasn’t rarefied about art. He believed it belonged to all of us, and he always raved about my work. And, at this moment, he was speaking to me as an artist. “You’ve got to get back to creating. There’s no better way to mourn.”
    I was surprised he put it so bluntly, but relieved, too. I was tired of sympathy. “I haven’t started up again, not yet,” I said.
    He nodded, solemnly.
    “Abbot,” I called, “we’ve got to go.”
    Disappointed, Abbot walked back to me. He said to Daniel, “Your paintings make people feel sad, but you don’t know why.”
    “A great definition of abstract art,” Daniel said.
    Abbot smiled and rubbed his hands together; then, as if noticing it himself, he shoved them in his pockets. Daniel took no notice, but I did. Abbot was learning to mask his problem. Was this a step backward or forward?
    “I’m late for mimosas,” I said.
    Daniel was looking at an unfinished canvas. He turned to me. “Heidi.” He hesitated. “I’ve had to postpone the honeymoon for a few days to finish up work for a show. Elysius is in an uproar. When you see her, remind her I’m a nice person.”
    “I will,” I said. “Can we leave these here?” I asked, looking down at my suitcase and Abbot’s bag.
    “Of course,” he said.
    “Come on, Abbot,” I said, disentangling his tie and cummerbund from the snorkeling gear.
    Abbot ran to the door.
    “It really is good to see you two,” Daniel said.
    “You, too,” I said. “Happy almost wedding!”
    ecause Elysius and Daniel had been living here together for eight years, the wedding seemed like a strange afterthought. I considered Elysius and Daniel as not only having a marriage but having an enduring one. For my sister, however, the wedding was monumental, and now, walking past the lush lawn, the back-and-forth tracks of a wide riding mower pushing the grass in stripes, I felt guilty for being so removed.
    I should have at least agreed to make her wedding cake. Once upon a time, I’d had a growing reputation as ahigh-end cake designer. People from all over Florida still call the Cake Shop for events a year or more in advance to reserve a spot. Weddings had been a specialty. But shortly after Henry’s death, I’d retreated to making the cupcakes and lemon squares in the early morning hours and working the counter. I’d sworn off brides—they were too overbearing, too wrapped up in the event. They struck me as ingrates, taking love for granted. Now I was embarrassed for not having offered to make Elysius and Daniel’s cake. It was my gift, the one small thing I had to give.
    I