The Provence Cure for the Brokenhearted Read Free Page A

looked up at the bank of windows, the kitchen and the dining room lit with a bright, golden hue, and stopped.
    “What is it?” Abbot said.
    I wanted to turn back and go home. Was I ready for this? It struck me this was how I felt in life now, like someone stalled on a lawn outside of a giant house who looked into beautiful windows where people were living their lives, filling flower vases, brushing their hair while looking in the mirror, laughing in quick flutters that would rise up and disappear. And here was my own sister’s life, brimming.
    “Nothing,” I said to Abbot. I grabbed his hand and gave it a squeeze. He squeezed back and just like that he took a step ahead of me and pulled me toward the house—full of the living.
    At that moment, the back door flung wide, and my mother emerged. Her hair was a honeyed confection swooped up in her signature chignon, and her face was glazed in a way that made her look “dewy and young,” which she attributedto a line of expensive lotions. My mother was aging beautifully. She had a long, elegant neck, full lips, arched eyebrows. It’s a strange thing to be raised by someone much more beautiful than you’ll ever be. She had a regal beauty, but, set against this posture of royalty, her vulnerability seemed more pronounced—a certain weary softness in her expressions.
    Her eyes fell on me and Abbot there on the lawn. “I’ve just been sent out to find you!”
    My sister sent my mother to find me? This was bad. Very bad.
    “How late are we?” I asked.
    “You mean, how angry is your sister?”
    “Have I missed the mini toasts?” I asked, hoping I had.
    My mother didn’t answer. She bustled across the deck and down the small set of stairs. Her toffee-colored dress swished around her. It was a sleek design that showed off her collarbones. My mother is half French, and she believes in elegance.
    “I needed to get out of that house!” she said. “And you were my excuse. Direct orders to find you and get you moving.” She looked agitated, maybe even a little teary. Had she been crying? My mother is a woman of deep emotion, but not one to cry easily. She’s the definition of the term
active senior
—she puts on a show of busyness meant to imply satisfaction but has always given me the impression of a woman about to burst. Once upon a time, she did burst and disappeared for the summer, but then she came back to us. Still, once a mother’s taken off without you—even if she wasright to do so—you spend the rest of your life wondering if she may do it again. She turned her attention to Abbot. “Aren’t you a beautiful boy?”
    He blushed. My mother had this effect on everyone—the mail carrier harried at the holidays, the pilot who steps out to say bye-bye at the end of a flight, even a snotty maitre d’.
    “And you?” she said, brushing my hair back over one shoulder. “Where are the pearls?”
    “I still need a few finishing touches,” I said. “How is Elysius doing?”
    “She’ll forgive you,” my mother said softly. My mother knew that this might be hard for me—one daughter was gaining a husband, one had lost one—and so she was trying to tread carefully.
    “I’m so sorry we’re late,” I said guiltily. “I lost track of time. Abbot and I were …”
    “Busy writing the speech for Auntie Elysius,” Abbot said. “I was helping!” He looked guilty, too—my coconspirator.
    My mother shook her head. Her eyes filled with tears. “I’m such a mess!” she said, trying to smooth the ripples from her dress and then laughing strangely. “I don’t know why I’m responding like this!” She pinched her nose as if to stop herself from crying.
    “Responding to what?” I asked, surprised by her sudden emotion. “The wedding? Weddings are crazy. They bring up a lot of—”
    “It’s not the wedding,” my mother said. “It’s the house.
Our
house … in Provence—there’s been a fire.”

y sister and I went to the house in Provence with