Read Online The Provence Cure for the Brokenhearted by Bridget Asher - Free Book Online
Authors: Bridget Asher
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parents’ tenuous marriage, almost like they sucked up all the air in a room, and I was left feeling oxygen-deprived. But with Henry, I had air again. I could breathe. He thought I was funny, and so I got funnier. He thought I was beautiful, and so I felt more beautiful. He thought I was brilliantly experimental in the kitchen, and so I experimented more brilliantly. We had our problems, yes, but even our problems bound us closer. And now I knew what it was like to be only half of a pair and less of myself.
One night, lying in bed together, about a month before Henry died, my calf seized. I shot up in bed and cried out, “Leg cramp!”
Henry was almost asleep. The room was lit only by the hall light. He said, “Your leg or mine?”
I was flexing my foot, rubbing the knot violently. “What do you mean, your leg or mine? How would
I
know if
you
had a leg cramp?”
Henry was quiet a moment, and then said, “You’re right. My legs feel fine.”
The truth was that Henry and I had grown so close that sometimes it was hard to know where one of us began and the other ended. We’d been together for so long that most of our memories were the same film, just different camera angles, and from years of playing the memories, even the camera angles were mostly blurred to one by this point.
“Isn’t it gorgeous?” A woman beside me nodded toward the cake. She was older and smelled of gardenia perfume.
I nodded and, before I could utter a single critique, I slipped away. I’d missed my chance to design a cake that truly reflected Elysius and Daniel. I would have concentrated on the art in the house. The spare furnishings are supposed to allow someone to fix their attention on the art. I would have spent time in Daniel’s studio, taking in his work—the restless birds that seemed to beat just below the surface—and I would have talked to them about why they loved each other. That’s where I would have gone. I was this kind of cake designer—my thoughts always churning to the most ambitious interpretation. A cake to reflect abstract art? A cake with the restlessness of wings? A cake about saying yes to marriage after so many years? How would it be done? I felt the smallest inkling of desire—the step before wanting to create, the want to want to create.
As I drifted through the reception thinking this, I caught myself keeping an eye out for Henry. I did this often. It was one of the theories that I had for why I was always losing things. I was looking for Henry. He was lost and my mind was waiting for him to return; my eyes wanted to find him. I still saw him everywhere—his broad back in line at the movies, his hand reaching out to pay ahead of me in line at a drive-through. I’d see Henry walking along with some other family—holding hands with one of the kids or locking arms with the wife. But he would always turn into some other man—his hair too dark or too light, his nose too fine or tooknotted—a stranger, no one I knew. For a while, each time this would happen, I’d feel betrayed, tricked. And, just as I’d learned not to linger in memories, I learned when to look away—just before the man glanced back, just before his face appeared in the window—and I learned how to have a peripheral husband—one still alive, when I could time it right.
At an event like this, my subconscious was even more determined to find him. On some level, I was sure that he wouldn’t miss an event this big, this important to Elysius and Daniel. Finally, I saw him from behind, talking to a bartender, slapping someone on the back … and I looked away.
When I did, I turned abruptly, almost bowling over Jack Nixon—Nix and/or Crook. He’d been poised to say hello, but I’d knocked his bottle of beer up against his chest. It was a full beer and some of it spilled onto his shoes—nice shoes, black leather with some stylish trim, squared off at the toe in a season when squared off at the toe was in.
“I’m Jack,” he said,
One night, lying in bed together, about a month before Henry died, my calf seized. I shot up in bed and cried out, “Leg cramp!”
Henry was almost asleep. The room was lit only by the hall light. He said, “Your leg or mine?”
I was flexing my foot, rubbing the knot violently. “What do you mean, your leg or mine? How would
I
know if
you
had a leg cramp?”
Henry was quiet a moment, and then said, “You’re right. My legs feel fine.”
The truth was that Henry and I had grown so close that sometimes it was hard to know where one of us began and the other ended. We’d been together for so long that most of our memories were the same film, just different camera angles, and from years of playing the memories, even the camera angles were mostly blurred to one by this point.
“Isn’t it gorgeous?” A woman beside me nodded toward the cake. She was older and smelled of gardenia perfume.
I nodded and, before I could utter a single critique, I slipped away. I’d missed my chance to design a cake that truly reflected Elysius and Daniel. I would have concentrated on the art in the house. The spare furnishings are supposed to allow someone to fix their attention on the art. I would have spent time in Daniel’s studio, taking in his work—the restless birds that seemed to beat just below the surface—and I would have talked to them about why they loved each other. That’s where I would have gone. I was this kind of cake designer—my thoughts always churning to the most ambitious interpretation. A cake to reflect abstract art? A cake with the restlessness of wings? A cake about saying yes to marriage after so many years? How would it be done? I felt the smallest inkling of desire—the step before wanting to create, the want to want to create.
As I drifted through the reception thinking this, I caught myself keeping an eye out for Henry. I did this often. It was one of the theories that I had for why I was always losing things. I was looking for Henry. He was lost and my mind was waiting for him to return; my eyes wanted to find him. I still saw him everywhere—his broad back in line at the movies, his hand reaching out to pay ahead of me in line at a drive-through. I’d see Henry walking along with some other family—holding hands with one of the kids or locking arms with the wife. But he would always turn into some other man—his hair too dark or too light, his nose too fine or tooknotted—a stranger, no one I knew. For a while, each time this would happen, I’d feel betrayed, tricked. And, just as I’d learned not to linger in memories, I learned when to look away—just before the man glanced back, just before his face appeared in the window—and I learned how to have a peripheral husband—one still alive, when I could time it right.
At an event like this, my subconscious was even more determined to find him. On some level, I was sure that he wouldn’t miss an event this big, this important to Elysius and Daniel. Finally, I saw him from behind, talking to a bartender, slapping someone on the back … and I looked away.
When I did, I turned abruptly, almost bowling over Jack Nixon—Nix and/or Crook. He’d been poised to say hello, but I’d knocked his bottle of beer up against his chest. It was a full beer and some of it spilled onto his shoes—nice shoes, black leather with some stylish trim, squared off at the toe in a season when squared off at the toe was in.
“I’m Jack,” he said,
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