The Provence Cure for the Brokenhearted by Bridget Asher Read Free Book Online

I had an argument about communism, of all things,” she said. “Her hair has become an indicator of her mood. It is now dyed blue with black tips. She’s a walking mood ring.”
    “And what does blue with black tips mean?” I asked.
    “It means
moping
. Her mother couldn’t stand her moping around anymore and sent her to live with us for the summer—as if we love moping—at our wedding!” Charlotte’s mother wasn’t particularly well balanced. She’d tried going back to school for various advanced degrees. She was often going to various retreats when Daniel felt she should be going through some kind of rehab. For what? He didn’t really know. In any case, Elysius and Daniel always picked up the slack. Elysius resented it, but she knew that it meant the world to Daniel and so, by and large, tried to keep her mouth shut. She didn’t want to have children of her own, but there was something to be gained by the title of motherhood, andshe was happy enough to have that common ground to share with other women when the conversations turned—as she complained they inevitably did—to kids.
    “Why is she moping?” I asked.
    “
A
: She’s Charlotte. She mopes.”
    “She’s a good kid,” I said. This was my refrain, really—
Charlotte’s a good kid. She’ll turn out just fine. She’ll own all of us one day once she sets her mind to ruling the world
. I didn’t know her very well, but I liked her and had confidence in her—a luxury afforded me perhaps by some distance.
    “And
B
: Adam Briskowitz,” Elysius said. “She’s obsessed with him.”
    “She has a boyfriend?” I asked.
    My mother sat down and rubbed her bunion through the leather of her high heels. She refused to wear comfortable shoes, claiming that they made her look orthopedically aged. “She doesn’t have a boyfriend. She has a
disaster
. He’s going to college next year.”
    “Heidi, go round her up and make sure she’s getting ready. You’ll be able to talk her out of showing up in camouflage. Sometimes, I swear she’s
trying
to get profiled as a school shooter.”
    “Okay,” I said, picking up a brush and running it through my hair. “I need another coat of makeup, I think.”
    My mother looked at the clock on the bedside table. “We’re supposed to be lining up on the deck so we’re in the right order for the procession.”
    I started for the door.
    “Wait,” my mother said. “Your private toast for Elysius. The one that you and Abbot worked on?”
    “My toast!” my sister said, raising her glass.
    “Yes,” I said, and then patted my dress as if it had pockets. “I think I lost it!”
    My mother looked at me suspiciously—was this a sign that I was backsliding? Henry was the one who’d kept track of everything. If he’d been alive, he would have found the toast, even probably typed it up for me and kept it folded in his pocket until I needed it. He wore a watch so I didn’t have to. He kept a real to-do list—for both of us—whereas I would start a to-do list with things I’d already done so that I’d have the pleasure of crossing them out. I was dependent on Henry, even though this made me feel like a child. “I don’t need you to herd me around like a lost sheep!” I’d say. Sometimes this started a little argument that he usually won, because I did, in fact, need to be herded. And sometimes it was part of a larger argument between us—maybe both of us were afraid I would drift too far, as my mother once had.
    Maybe it would have been better if I had lost the Cake Shop—if I’d hit rock bottom and needed to get back up on my own two feet in order for Abbot and me to survive. I knew, deep down, that Daniel was right—I should have been pouring myself into my work. In the past, I’d done just that when I was trying to mourn a loss. Henry had loved that about me, that I could turn my sadness into something beautiful. He would sometimes confess at the end of the day that he’d watched me from the small