Page 43 of Only Mine
I tousle her hair, then turn back to the line, barking an order for the sea bass that makes Wrenley jump.
As I supervise, I do everything in my power to focus on the only other love of my life: creating masterpiece dishes. But, since my morning routine went sideways, it comes as no surprise that my afternoon one is quickly following. My attention keeps straying to two bright spots of color in my monochrome world.
At some point, I hear Ivy as she tugs on Wrenley’s hand.
“Come see! Papa lets me smell the herbs!”
She drags Wrenley toward a small collection of pottedherbs near the prep station—fresh basil, rosemary, mint—their scents mingling with the richer aromas of the kitchen.
“This one smells like pizza!” Ivy proclaims, gently rubbing an oregano leaf between her fingers and holding it up for Wrenley to sniff.
Wrenley leans down, inhaling deeply.
“You’re right. And this one”—she touches a sprig of mint— “smells like sunshine and sweet tea.”
Ivy giggles. “Papa says it smells like mojitos.”
Wrenley’s eyes meet mine over Ivy’s head, a small, surprised smile playing on her lips, like she enjoyed learning that I’m capable of humor.
I grunt, turning away to inspect a tray of confit duck legs one of my line cooks presents. But I’m acutely aware of them, of Wrenley’s patient attention as Ivy points out each herb, her voice animated. Wrenley’s focus on Ivy is absolute. She doesn’t glance at her phone or look bored. She asks questions, her head tilted, her expression genuinely engaged.
It’s a scene I’ve witnessed before, not with any former nanny, but with Celine, her laughter taking over the environment as she taught Ivy the language of flavors.
That memory is a sharp, unexpected pang, until an unlikely warmth curls in my chest, fighting the memory’s icy grip.
An unexpected thawing.
Celine’s ghost is still here, but it’s quieter. Muted by the sight of Ivy’s unrestrained joy, by the genuine kindness in Wrenley’s eyes as she listens to my daughter explain the difference between thyme and marjoram with the dignity of a seasoned botanist.
Ivy is, for the first time in a long time, truly connecting with someone new.
“Can we show Miss Wrenley your special place, Papa?”Ivy asks, her eyes bright with excitement, pulling me from my thoughts. “The one behind the restaurant?”
My special place. Celine’s herb garden. The small patch of earth we’d cultivated together, first in Paris, then here, when I planted a living memorial to her love for fresh ingredients, for life.
I almost refuse. The thought of Wrenley there, in that space so intimately tied to Celine, feels like an intrusion.
But then I see Ivy’s face, alight with anticipation, and Wrenley’s curious, gentle gaze.
“Alright,” I say. “But be careful. Some of those plants are delicate.”
Like memories, I think.
Like hearts.
Ivy’s small hand slips into Wrenley’s, and she pulls her toward the back exit, her purple dress a vibrant splash against the muted tones of the alley.
Despite demands for my attention, I follow at a distance.
The garden isn’t much to look at, just a few raised beds tucked into a sun-drenched corner behind the restaurant, shielded by a weathered wooden fence. But every plant, every stone, is imbued with Celine. Her laughter, the smudge of dirt on her cheek, the way she’d talk to the herbs as if they were her confidants.
I lean against the rough brick wall, observing.
Ivy, with a newfound sense of importance, points at each plant. “Maman loved planting lavender. She said it smelled like sleepy dreams.”
Wrenley crouches down beside her. She doesn’t offer platitudes or try to steer the conversation. Wrenley just listens, her warm eyes fixed on Ivy, absorbing every word.
“And this one,” Ivy continues, her small finger brushingagainst a rosemary bush, “Maman said it was for remembering.”
