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at me. “Sure. That okay with you?”
    I nodded. “Let me shower real fast.”
    We drove twenty minutes to downtown and parked in a narrow alley. I was tired, drugged, and spacey, so I let Luc lead me. He pointed out landmarks, the train station, and the university. We walked along the main drag, and he took me to a cell phone store, where I bought a serviceable phone as opposed to a gadget. I sent a quick text to Jules and then turned it off.
    There weren’t many people who needed to know my whereabouts. I liked being off the grid. I wanted simple.
    “I’ve never been to New York,” Luc said, attempting to engage me in conversation. “What’s it like?”
    Until a week ago, it hadn’t just been a city—it had been my home, and a place to build memories. I’d become an adult there, yet the idea of ever returning burned a hole in the cavern of my belly. “It’s a bizarre place.”
    He laughed. “How so?”
    Tilting my head to one side, I thought about it. “I used to love the hustle—I thrived on the energy, but things change. What was it like growing up here, in this idyllic, postcard-perfect place?”
    Luc smiled. “Couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.”
    “Have you traveled?”
    He nodded. “All over Europe. Australia. I’ve seen enough to know this will always be home.”
    It started to rain, and though I had an umbrella that kept me dry, the cobblestone was slick, and I slipped. I sat still, water soaking into my jeans, the cold of winter seeping into my bones.
    “What are you doing?” Luc demanded. “Get up.”
    When I didn’t move, he hauled me to my feet. Our umbrellas clashed against one another, dribbling rain on his coat and neck. “I think it’s time to go home.”
    We drove in silence, and my eyes began to close. I was tired, always tired. When we got back to the cottage, I let Luc build a fire as I stripped off my coat and boots. I went upstairs to change into dry clothes, then came back and reclined on the couch, throwing a plaid blanket over my legs.
    “Do you want to talk about her?” Luc asked.
    “No.” I glanced at him. What did he see when he looked at me? I knew the bags under my dull gray eyes threatened to take over my entire visage, and my wan skin was drained of the blush of life. My cheekbones were grotesque arrows pointing to my frozen anguish. I was a canvas of flaws. “You don’t have to stay with me.”
    “I know,” he said, “but I thought you could use some comfort.”
    Comfort. I’d forgotten the meaning of the word. Connor hadn’t given me much in the way of it—he hadn’t known how. And Jules…well, she had her own idea of what it meant.
    My head throbbed, crammed full and threatening to burst open. Maybe I should talk about my mother. Maybe that would make me feel better, though I doubted it.
    “I wish I had a drink,” I muttered. “These things are easier with a drink.”
    “There’s some wine in the main house.”
    I shook my head. “Wine will not do for this kind of conversation.”
    “What then?”
    “Scotch. Or tequila. Something that numbs.” I placed my head in my hands.
    “Just talk, Sage.”
    I sighed. Defeat was ubiquitous. “I felt relief when she died. She was in so much pain; I just wanted it to end. We put pets to sleep when there’s no hope, but we watch our loved ones linger in their misery. Her suffering became my suffering.” I lifted my head, heavy with guilt. “I know how I sound.”
    “You sound human.”
    “Humans are heartless.”
    “Or, maybe, they have too much heart. Ever think of that?”
    “She was a writer.”
    “I know. We have her books in the library.”
    “Ever read them?”
    He shook his head. “Not my genre. Maman has read them, though.”
    “What did she think?”
    “Good stories. Your mother was very successful.”
    “Yes, she was.” I paused in thought before asking, “What is the one thing that defines you, Luc?”
    “I’m not sure I understand.”
    “You’re a winemaker. Is that