Alana and Julia locked eyes for a moment. It had been a long, long time since they’d heard Greta refer to their home with its original title.
“Oh. Thank you.” Sarah stuttered as she drew a curl around her ear. “I’ve walked past this place a thousand times, probably.”
Greta nodded. “It was built in the 1800s. I used to fantasize about all the other lives people lived here. All the other children, the other lovers, the dinner parties with friends. My husband and I bought it in 1973— but think of the one hundred years before that. All unknown!”
“1973?” Sarah whispered, clearly impressed. It probably seemed like one million years ago to her.
“The house spent a good twenty-five years in hibernation,” Greta explained. “But recently, Julia hired some kind gentlemen to fix up the outside. When I spot it from a distance down the beach, I think to myself— there it is again! The Copperfield House, from my memories!” Greta’s eyes sparkled.
Sarah looked caught off-guard, as though she wasn’t accustomed to grown-ups talking so poetically. This had always been the way of Greta, the pre-trial version, at least. It was remarkable to see her act out this old version of herself. It made Alana feel like a kid again.
“Now Sarah,” Greta said, her hands on her hips. “Do you cook?”
A bit of color came to Sarah’s pale cheeks. “Not really.”
“That’s a sad thing,” Great responded. “I’m a feminist, through and through. I don’t believe a women’s place is in the kitchen and a man’s place is wherever the work is. Not in the least!”
Sarah’s smile inched from ear to ear.
“But that doesn’t mean I don’t believe in the magic of being able to cook yourself a beautiful meal,” Greta continued. “Would you like to see what we’ve cooked up so far?”
There was only one answer Sarah could possibly give.
Alana and Julia stood off to the side, watching as Greta presented Sarah with each of the essential steps of a perfect French cassoulet.
“In French cooking, you can’t be afraid of butter,” Greta explained matter-of-factly, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. “The French have a way of living that upholds fat and carbs. They believe in the beauty of a dinner that lasts all night long. To them, eating is far more than just nourishment. It brings people together.”
Sarah grimaced, probably at the wide amount of butter and cheese that Greta showed her in the fridge. But instead of declaring all of it “evil,” she simply said, “It’s so strange to see all of this in your fridge. Most people I know are obsessed with fruit smoothies and protein bars.”
Greta nearly barked with laughter. “A terrible thing! Have you ever gathered around a dinner table and shared protein bars?”
Sarah giggled.
“I know. It’s a funny picture, isn’t it?” Greta asked her, a grin widespread on her lips. “Imagine a Christmas dinner with only protein bars and fruit smoothies. It would end in fifteen minutes, and everyone would go home sad and miserable.”
“I guess you’re right?” Sarah sounded unsure of herself but eager, sipping her Diet Coke between questions. She asked about the process of browning meat, of sautéing onions, and of charring the top of the cassoulet. Grateful to chat about her greatest achievement, Greta spoke eloquently, explaining the intricacies as Sarah nodded along.
The food required several more hours. Alana half-expected Sarah to duck out, her two-liter in hand as she charged back through the journalists, overwhelmed at the sight of so much food. To her surprise, however, Sarah followed Alana, Julia, and Greta around, from the kitchen to the library to the porch that overlooked the Nantucket Sound. When Greta handed her a glass of homemade lemonade, Sarah asked once, “How many spoonfuls of sugar is in it?” And to this, Greta waved a hand and said, “It’s the perfect recipe. That’s all you need to know.”
At nine-thirty, Sarah, Alana, Julia, and Greta sat around the dining room table with blackened cassoulet across antique china. Julia filled three wine glasses with a very dry Bordeaux, while Sarah stuck with water. This, Greta, had insisted, saying that no person in their right mind would eat cassoulet with Diet Coke. Sarah blinked down at the feast, the result of nearly an entire day of cooking.
“Let’s not wait till it gets cold,” Greta instructed, drawing her fork through the gelatinous mixture and lifting it to her lips. Her eyes coaxed Sarah to do the same.
Sarah seemed to make a bargain with herself. She knew that if she wanted to stay there at The Copperfield House with Alana, Julia, and Greta, she had to scrape her plate clean. With a shaking hand, she eased her fork through the world-famous dish and layered a small piece across her tongue.
How long had it been since Sarah had allowed herself a proper meal?Given the deep caves of her cheeks and the long tender bones of her arms, Alana would have guessed six months, maybe more.
Sarah’s jaw shifted uneasily as she chewed and swallowed. Her eyes then found Greta’s as she whispered, “Gosh.”
Alana’s laughter was tentative. “It’s really all that needs to be said, right?”
Sarah smiled. “I can’t imagine my dad ever cooking up something like this.”
Greta waved a hand. “It took many, many lonely nights in Paris for me to manage to make anything quite like this.”
Sarah allowed herself another very small bite. “Paris. Wow.” She chewed as her eyes turned toward Alana’s. “Paris runs in the family, I guess.”
Alana’s heart thudded. This was Sarah’s clue that she knew all about the painting incident, about Asher. Alana’s first instinct was to feel embarrassed. But she soon shoved that away, remembering that Sarah had given her a tremendous gift that evening. She’d looked beyond her harrowing fears of food. She’d eaten.