Page 140 of The Pairing

“This is the same recipe I used the first morning we were together,” I tell them.

“Oh. Well. Maybe that’s why I like it so much.”

I place a cup of black coffee beside their plate, following their gaze to the kitchen wall next to the chalkboard.

“I can’t believe you bought one of those,” they say, smiling at the calendar I brought back from a roadside souvenir stand in Rome, the one featuring a hot priest for every month. “Wait, what am I saying—of course you did. You’re Kit.”

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” I say, kissing their temple. Then I look more closely at the calendar and realize the date. “Wait, Theo, weren’t you supposed to take the somm exam today?”

They reach for the sugar bowl and dump a spoonful into their cup.

“I think I know what I want my one thing to be,” they say. “And I don’t know that I need to pass a test to do it.”

I sit in the chair beside theirs, holding my coffee cup between my palms, letting its warmth spread into me.

“Tell me.”

“Imagine a bar,” Theo begins, “but it’s also a bakery. New menu every week, only five or six special items dependent on what’s in season, plus a permanent selection of local staples. French-focused, but with Spanish and Italian elements. Everything sourced directly through personal relationships with farms, vineyards, fishmongers, chocolatiers, bakers. And the concept is, every dish is designed to pair with a drink. A customized cocktail, a specifically chosen glass of wine. Every pairing is designed to tell a story, so when you order, you’re ordering a full experience.”

I nod. I adore this idea. “And what’s this place called?”

“I was thinking,” Theo says, “Field Day.”

It dawns on me slowly. Fairfield. Flowerday. Fairflower was our first dream. This could be our new one.

“If you want,” Theo adds. “It’s just an idea. I don’t even know where we could open it.”

I look at Theo, bathed in morning glow, and I picture them in the sea with me, swimming back to each other, meeting again and again. I see sand as white and fine as sugar.

“I might have a suggestion.”

EPILOGUE

Notes on aroma, Saint-Jean-de-Luz on a winter morning:

Cold, crisp seawater. Fresh linens, washed just yesterday, already mingled with lavender and neroli. Yeast, bread crust, brown butter, lemon rind, thyme dried by the sun in a kitchen window. Wet paint and sawdust from the turn-ups of my jeans, the apricot jam Kit brought back from Les Halles for me when I was too busy under a sink with a wrench to go grocery shopping. Possibility.

“Say it again,” Paloma says to me as we walk back from the post office, our arms full of packages. “Faster now.”

“Veux-tu m’épouser?”

“Now like you mean it.”

“Veux-tu m’épouser!”

“There you go! Your pronunciation is getting better!”

I grin. Paloma smells faintly of sardines and sweetened coffee. “I’m a fast learner.”

Last summer, when I landed back in California with one of Kit’s sweaters and a whole new idea of what my life could be, I started learning French. I had plenty of help—long emails from Paloma, Cora over the phone, podcasts and apps and Maxine with the air of a sexy drill sergeant. And, of course, Kit. Always Kit and our never-ending conversation, our video calls to test recipes or sketch out plans. Sometimes I’d make him quiz me. Sometimes he simply sat on the other end of the phone and read a novel aloud in French while I soldiered through chores.

(Sometimes we’d get naked. For an intermediate French speaker, I have acquired a truly impressive vocabulary for dirtytalk.)

“Sounding lovely, Léa!” Paloma calls toward the open window upstairs as we reach our destination. Her little cousin recently switched from flute to clarinet, much to the neighbors’ dismay. “Much less like a dying cat!”

“Shut up, Paloma,” Léa says, sticking her head out. “Hi, Theo!”

“Hi, Léa!” I call back. “See you for dinner tonight!”

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