44 Charles Street

THE SUMMER FLEW by for all of them. Marya covered the most ground. She drove from Paris to Provence, then down to St. Paul de Vence, and spent a weekend with friends in Antibes. She flew from Nice to Spain to visit her friend Ferran Adria, at elBulli in Roses with all his innovative creations. He had invented “molecular” cooking, where he broke the food down and reconstituted it. He had closed the restaurant for a while, and was planning to open again after doing more research. Marya was always fascinated by his ideas and creative genius. And from there she went to Florence, Bologna, Venice, Padua, down to Rome, and back to Paris again for a few days, before she flew to Boston, and then home to Vermont. Marya had friends everywhere, and everyone welcomed her visits. She had a fabulous time, and was happy to be in Vermont again, in her own bed, and cooking in her own kitchen, although she felt her husband’s absence more there. He’d been gone for a year. She still missed him, but she was busy and had a full life.

She and Charles-Edouard had traveled extensively in Provence, and discovered new recipes for their book. They were ready to submit the outline to the publisher, and were planning to write it in September. She added two new chapters while she was in Vermont, and then left for New Hampshire. It was already chilly at night, and fall was in the air. Some of the leaves were already turning as she drove through the countryside. She stayed longer than she intended with her friends in North Conway, and then she slowly drove back home. She’d had a good time all summer, and was starting to think about going back to New York after Labor Day, as she drove up to her house, and was startled to see Charles-Edouard standing on her porch. He looked impatient and relieved as she got out of her car.

“What are you doing here?” she asked him in amazement. His hair looked longer and wilder than ever, and his eyes were the same blue as the Vermont sky. “I thought you were in St. Tropez.” He had a house in Ramatuelle, which was just behind it, and had planned to spend August there. She hadn’t heard from him since Provence, and didn’t expect to. They had agreed to call each other when she got back to New York. And she had no idea what he was doing in Vermont.

He started talking the moment she stepped onto the porch. “She left me for one of my sous-chefs. Can you believe that? Just walked out, packed everything.”

“Who did?” She was sure he was talking about the chef who ran his restaurant in Paris. They’d had a stormy relationship for years, and she threatened to quit every three weeks.

“Arielle. My wife,” he responded with a look of outrage, and then he burst into a broad smile as he looked at Marya. He was happy to see her, and it showed.

“Your wife left you for the sous-chef?” Marya looked stunned.

“She’s divorcing me. I got a letter from her lawyer five days ago. He filed the papers. I got on the first plane here, but you were away.”

“Why didn’t you call me if you wanted to talk to me?” She looked totally mystified about why he was there.

“I wanted to talk to you in person,” he said insistently as she fished her house keys out of her bag and unlocked the door.

“What about? Our publisher is still on vacation. I added two more chapters last week, by the way. I think you’ll like them. One is entirely on spices, and how to use them, and the other is fish.”

“I didn’t come here to talk to you about fish,” he said, looking annoyed.

“Then why did you come here?” She looked vague as he followed her around the house, and she finally sat down on the couch, and he sat down next to her and looked her in the eye.

“I came to tell you in person that I’m a free man. For thirty years, you refused to take me seriously because I was married, and so were you”—a mere detail to him in the scheme of things, but neither of them was married now. “I’m not married anymore, or I won’t be. She wants to marry that idiot, but I don’t care. I haven’t loved her in years. I’ve been in love with you since the first time I laid eyes on you, Marya. I’m not going to let you brush me off anymore. I love you. You’re a great woman, a great chef. You’re the only woman I’ve ever met that I would be faithful to. I’m not leaving here until you agree to marry me. That’s what I came here to say.” And with that he kissed her, totally stunned her, and took her breath away. For a moment she didn’t know what to say, and then she laughed.

“Charles-Edouard Prunier, you are completely crazy. You’re insane. I don’t want to get married. I adore you too. But I don’t want to get married again at my age. I’m going to be sixty years old. Sixty-year-old people don’t get married. I’d be a laughingstock, and so would you.” She felt a flutter over what he was saying, and she had always loved him as a friend, but had never let herself be attracted to him. Now suddenly everything was different, and all obstacles had been removed.