I glance at Phoebe with a raised brow. Still okay? She nods.
“Yes,” I say. “And I am going to totally pig out.” I made a fake laughing sound.
Phoebe rolls her eyes. “Oh brother.”
It isn’t until we pile into Ben’s truck, Phoebe in front, me and Jasmine in back, that I realize I haven’t been in public in months. It’s not like I have a full-blown case of agoraphobia, but between the pandemic and Dmitri’s death and the loss of Phoebe’s support, I feel shaky in the world, without a spine. A ripple of anxiety threads upward through my chest. “Uh, maybe,” I say, “I should go home. Do . . . something.”
“Something?” Phoebe says, raising a brow. “You might want to come up with a better excuse than that.” But she’s smiling over her shoulder. “It’s only lunch.”
I focus on her clear eyes, the shape of her eyebrows. Nod.
Chapter Nine
Phoebe
When Suze hesitates outside the Pig ’N Pancake, I stand behind her and put my hands on her shoulders. “I’m right here with you.” Because even if we haven’t been communicating recently, of course I know she’s been having panic attacks. She’s prone to them, and considering everything that’s happened to her, it’s not surprising.
For a long time after her first movie came out and through the years of her very visible fame, walking out in public would cause such a stir that it wasn’t worth it. In Blue Cove, the locals have always given her space, and we’d often done little jaunts like this. The worry now is the lingering fear of strangers, of some random human trying to smash your head in.
A visual of her on a network of machines in the hospital flashes in front of my eyes, and with it comes the sense of terror and despair that lived in my body while I waited for her to wake up. I promised the heavens a million things: that I would forgive all the things she said to me, take back all the things I said to her, if they would let her live.
Let her live, let her live, let her live.
We haven’t yet had that talk. Maybe we never will. Maybe the damage will live in both of us for the rest of our lives, stamping on our attempts to forget, to heal the rift. I feel like a married couple who was all set to divorce when one of them got cancer.
But this—today, last night, the studio—is easy. How many rounds of cards did we play with Amma? How many times did we sit in the studio and silently heal the usual rifts and pains and furies of friendship?
So many.
The Pig ’N Pancake was a place we always came when my grandmother was feeling the yen for a good, big breakfast. She loved eating, and especially loved breakfast with all the trimmings. I feel the same love for the place. A waitress with a bouncy red ponytail leads us through the restaurant, which is fairly quiet this time of day. Suze is wearing big sunglasses and a hat, but a couple of people do a double take anyway. “Can we have that booth in the back?” I ask.
The girl nods. We all shimmy in, Suze against the wall, her back to the room. “Thanks,” she says.
I nod.
Jasmine sits next to her, swinging her feet. “I’m having blueberry pancakes,” she says. “With all the whipped cream.”
“And milk,” I add, thinking a little protein might help offset the sugar.
“Hot chocolate!” Jasmine says.
“Save that for later,” I say. “You don’t want to get too hyped on sugar.”
I turn my attention to the menu. My stomach growls, and a yawn overtakes me. “I’m going to need a nap when I get back.”
A man a few booths down is glowering in our direction, and I glare back: What’s your problem? Then turn my attention to the menu.
“Not me,” Jasmine says. “Naps are for babies.”
“You can have quiet time, then,” I say. “In your nest of animals.”
She giggles.
The waitress returns with coffee for all the adults and milk for Jasmine. We order full breakfasts, even Suze. “The fresh air,” she says to me with a half grin.
I return it, warmed. It was shorthand during the pandemic times, when we ate ourselves silly—pancakes and steaks and cakes, experimenting like we were teenagers again. I invented a white cake with raspberry filling that is still in rotation, and she focused on savory pies. “Good food,” I say. She was grieving Dmitri, and the cooking was a way to give her something to do, the first cooking she’d done in decades. It had been good for all of us to have her here, for me, for Jasmine, for Beryl. We had our own little family of women. “That cheese leek pie you made is still one of my favorite foods of all time.”
She closes her eyes, making a soft sound. “So good.” Discarding her hat, she says, “Did you keep all those recipes?”
“Of course.” To Ben, I explain, “We were here during the pandemic and cooked a ton.”
“Sounds good.”
“Where did you spend quarantine, Ben?” Suze asks before I can shake my head.
“Africa,” he answers, erecting a wall of protection. What I know is that his wife died during that time. I don’t think it was COVID, but I haven’t asked. It’s clear he doesn’t want to talk about it.
Suze nods. “I kinda miss some of those days. It was so much less pressure.”
“Well, people died,” Ben says.
“Yes,” she says, looking at him directly.
I touch his hand. “Her partner was one of the early casualties.”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean—”
“It’s all right.” She shakes her hair from her face. “I also liked some parts of the quarantine.”
“I liked it, too,” Jasmine says. “I got to come here and Nana took care of me because my mom had to work from home and I got on her nerves.”
Suze leans against Jasmine for a moment. “It was great to all be together, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. Remember that pie we made with potato chips on top?”
“I do!”
“Amma loved that one,” I say, pierced suddenly with missing her. Those last few years she was frail and needed help moving around, but she was still mostly herself and mostly loved to eat. We were very careful to be sure she wasn’t infected with the virus, and she never was.
“Like anything else,” I say, “it was a mixed bag. Bad for some people, good for others.”
A shine brightens Suze’s aqua eyes. “Yeah.” She brushes hair from her face, and I’m glad to see her relaxing in a public place. It’s her hometown and with her oldest friend, but it’s progress.
Jasmine says, “Why can’t I come back now?”
“You’re here now,” I say.
“No, when my mom goes to London. Why can’t I stay here with you like I did then?”
“Your mom would miss you too much.”
She bows her head, sucks in her cheeks. “I don’t want to move so far away.”
Suze leans into her, whispers, “I’ve been there. It’s really cool. You might see castles.”
“I know.” She shrugs. “I like Blue Cove the best.”
“You can come back,” I say. “And I’ll come see you, too.” My stomach is aching a little, both for her worries and my sense of loss. But as a grandmother, my job is always to facilitate the best thing for her. To that end, I say, “What if we go to the library and get some books about England?”
She considers. “Okay. That might be good.”
“I think you’re going to love it,” Suze says.
Jasmine nods, drinks milk through her paper straw.
“To change the subject completely,” Suze says, “can one of you recommend an electrician? I’m having trouble with a fuse knocking things off.”
“You still haven’t fixed that?” I ask.
“Not urgent if I’m not there.”
“I’ve been pretty happy with Blue River,” Ben says. “They did some work on the greenhouses a couple of months ago.”
“Cool. Thanks.”
“I’ll give them a call for you.”
Suze simply accepts the help. “Thanks.”