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how you see yourself?”
    “Ah. No, I’m other things too.”
    I sighed. “I’m worried I’m only a writer—we define ourselves because we have to, and I don’t want to be defined. If I say ‘writer’, what does it really mean?” I felt drunk, but I knew it was just exhaustion. I wished I was drunk, so drunk I couldn’t form a coherent thought. “It’s fitting, you see, that Mom died when she did.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “The last book she wrote was her best work; she strived for it her entire life. It was the pinnacle of her creativity. After that, there’s nowhere to go but down,” I whispered. “It never would’ve happened for her again, and she would’ve spent the rest of her life cursing herself for that one moment of brilliance, because it would’ve set the bar so high she’d never be able to surpass it.”
    “You weren’t lying, were you? About needing a drink?”
    I couldn’t swallow my startled laughter.
    “Come on. That’s enough for one day.”
    Tugging me off the couch, he led me to the door. We ran to the manor in an attempt to stay dry, entering through the back door. We went into the kitchen, where Celia was placing ingredients on the counter.
    “How was your day?” she asked.
    “Rainy,” I replied.
    Luc went to the cabinet and pulled out wine glasses. “Is Papa home yet?”
    Celia nodded. “Showering, and then he’ll be down.”
    “Good.” He opened a bottle of wine and poured me an overly full glass.
    I wanted scotch, but wine would have to do. I took a sip and choked in surprise. I wasn’t expecting the sharp burst of fruit on my tongue. It made me think of hot summers, picnics under trees and the hum of bees. “Oh.”
    Luc grinned and shot his mother a glance.
    I felt like I was borrowing a memory that didn’t belong to me. “Wow. Just—wow.” I used to have a way with words. How ironic that they failed me in that moment.
    “Glad you like it,” a man said, entering the kitchen. He had the same color eyes as his son, but he was a good five inches shorter. His face was weathered and ruddy, a testament to his time spent outdoors. “Armand,” he introduced.
    “Sage.” I took another sip. “I’ve never tasted anything like this.”
    Armand grinned like he wasn’t surprised, and then went to kiss his wife before pouring himself a glass. “It’s good to be home. I’m tired.”
    “How’s Grand-mère ?” Luc asked.
    “Stubborn, but settled in her new place. I wish she would move back.”
    “Never going to happen,” Celia said. “Your mother is far too independent.” She unwrapped a wedge of Camembert and placed it on a platter. Washing a cluster of purple grapes, she put them next to the cheese and then brought it to the table. Luc and Armand sat down while Celia stayed at the counter and began dicing an onion.
    “Would you like some help?” I offered.
    Celia smiled. “Sure.” She pulled out a large pot and filled it three quarters of the way with water. After dumping in a palm full of salt, she covered it with the lid, turned the burner on high, and transferred chopped pancetta into a sizzling frying pan. She threw the onions into another skillet and slowly caramelized them, and then combined them with the crispy pancetta and stirred.
    “What are we making exactly?” I asked as I watched her break four eggs into a bowl of cream and whisk them.
    “Spaghetti Carbonara.”
    I paused. “Isn’t that Italian?”
    “It is,” Celia agreed. “Oh, were you hoping for a French meal?”
    I wasn’t hoping for anything at all. And that was the truth of it. “No, it’s fine. It smells great.”
    The timer buzzed, and she tested a noodle and then gave me one. “Al dente—perfect.”
    She divided the pasta onto four plates, added the cream of eggs, shaved Parmesan, and then cracked fresh black pepper.
    “Where did you learn to make this?” I wondered aloud when we were all seated around the table.
    “My mother,” Armand interjected with a