Susan Wiggs - Map of the Heart

Every few years, she would ask him the same question. “Papa, why have you never remarried?”

After Jace died, her father had asked her the same question. “Why have you never remarried?”

That shut her down entirely. After that conversation, she never asked her father again why he went through life alone. Because now she understood. After Jace was gone, everyone had expected her to move on, including Camille herself. It hadn’t happened. Five years later, there didn’t seem to be room in her heart for anything but grief. It was the one constant in her life, and she knew there was a part of her—admittedly irrational—that didn’t want to let go of her grief, because that would mean losing him completely. Holding on to sadness kept him from fading away forever. She knew—on an intellectual level—that this was not the healthiest way to grieve. She’d gone to months of therapy to arrive at that realization. Yet knowing this hadn’t helped her move on. She had never remarried because she’d come to believe that no love was worth the pain of loss.

After emerging from the fog of shock and grief, she had put together a life for herself and her daughter that made sense—most of the time. Except for those moments when she felt so lonely that her heart felt like a bottomless well.

Her dating life was mostly ridiculous. Her relationships had been short—mercifully short—until Drake Larson. She’d stuck with him for six months before admitting defeat.

People said she was attractive. She had her father’s dark hair and eyes, and her mother’s dramatic cheekbones and full lips. But when she looked in the mirror, she didn’t see a beautiful woman. She saw a woman who worried constantly, who lived inside a sadness she couldn’t manage to climb out of, and who regretted how daring and incautious she had once been, long ago.

Perhaps in matters of the heart, she took after her father. Perhaps she was only meant to have one shot at marriage.

She spun the greens in the colander, at the same time trying to shake off a wave of melancholy and the residue of a rotten week—Julie’s accident, and ruining Professor Finnemore’s film. Then she found the wine and sparkling water, and brought a tray outside.

“The garden looks wonderful this year,” she said, surveying the oblong patch on the south side of the house.

“I put in two more rows of tomatoes this week,” he said, pointing out the staked plants on the end. “Brandywine and Belgian Giant. One can never have enough homegrown tomatoes, eh?”

“Exactly. Yours are the best, Papa.”

“Come, let’s sit,” he said, gesturing at a small café table on the brickwork patio. The socca was done, crunchy around the edges and fragrant with the onions and herbs. He poured a chilled rosé wine from Provence, the traditional pairing with socca, and sparkling water for Julie.

“Santé,” they said together, lifting their glasses.

“Any day aboveground is a good day,” her father declared.

“I’ve never been fond of that one,” Camille said. “So grim.”

“After my year in hell,” he told them, “it has never been truer. Now that the treatment is done, I am determined to live my life.”

His diagnosis had been a devastating blow. The ensuing chemo and radiation had been grueling, but the goal had been attained—the cancer was in remission. A year ago, when he was in the throes of his illness and treatment, Camille had wanted to move in with Julie to help him through the ordeal, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He valued his privacy and independence too much.

He insisted that they keep their regular Friday schedule. Often, during that terrible time, Camille and Julie prepared a croque monsieur or an omelet with pesto and spinach while Henry lay shivering under a woolen blanket. For Julie’s sake, Camille tried not to show how sick with worry or how terrified she was of losing her father. They got through it with stubborn determination, and the help of a caregiver named Lamont Jeffries. Lamont had stayed with Henry while he was ill. He’d proven to be invaluable, keeping the household and garden running, looking after Henry, and taking care of all the painful indignities of cancer treatment. He still came around every week to visit and to do a bit of housekeeping and gardening.

Henry went to shut down the grill, moving with cautious deliberation, a leftover from his disease and treatment. Before the illness, he’d been gloriously youthful—as slender and fit as a man ten years younger, his abundant hair peppered with a distinguished sprinkling of white. After the chemo, his hair had grown back a dramatic snow white. He was still as handsome as ever, though he was no longer the spry, robust man she remembered. There was something fragile about him.

“How are you feeling?” Camille asked.

“I’m well,” he said with a satisfied smile. “I feel well. Have you ever studied the term ‘in remission’? In French, it is the same. It means an abatement of symptoms, but also, forgiveness.”

“That’s good, Papi. I’m glad you feel good again,” Julie said.

“I always feel best when I am with you, choupette, ” he told her, putting their glasses on the tray. “You are the most beautiful part of my week.”

Julie offered the special smile she seemed to reserve just for him.

“What a fantastic evening,” he said. “Julie, I miss seeing your friends. Where have they been lately? You used to bring a friend or two over.”

She stared at the ground, scuffing her foot at the brickwork. “Busy, I guess.”

“You must tell them to come around more often now that the summer weather is here.”

Her shoulders hunched up slightly. “Sure.”

“Madeline’s ducklings will hatch next week,” he said, gesturing at the wire enclosure in a corner of the yard. “Bring your friends around to see the babies.”

“All right. Maybe. Let’s go inside to dinner.” She picked up the tray, and they went to the kitchen together.

“I’m pretty sure that incredible smell is bouillabaisse,” Camille said.

“You are correct. The seafood from the local docks was excellent this week.”

“What’s the occasion?”

“Every time I sit down with my two lovely ladies is a special occasion.”

Julie plunked herself down on the sofa and took out her phone.

“What do you look at, so fixated on that small screen?” he asked.

Julie shrugged without looking up. “There’s a whole world in here. That’s why it’s called the World Wide Web.”

“The world is out there,” he said, gesturing at the view out the window. “I am an old man, but I do know the difference.”

“I’ve known that world all my life and I’m bored with it.”

“Put the phone away,” said Camille. “Screens off during mealtime.”

“I know. I know.”

Camille, too, wondered what Julie studied with such absorption in that small rectangle of light. There were new apps and games all the time, and her daughter was a known techno-wizard. No wonder real life seemed boring. In the screen world, all a person had to do was watch. Participation was optional—the screen created a shield or barrier. You could observe things at a safe distance. If your world inhabited a tiny screen, you didn’t have to be scared or out of control. You didn’t have to deal with the real world around you.

“How can we help?” she asked her father.

“You can toss the salad and lay the table. I will show Julie how to make the rouille.” The two of them made a spicy mayonnaise of olive oil, garlic, saffron, and cayenne pepper, spreading it on slices of grilled bread to float in the fish stew. Then he ladled the fragrant broth and fish onto soup plates, topping them with the bread slices.