In the Age of Love and Chocolate

“Because I remind you of your daughter?”

“That, yes. But because of yourself, too. You are in my life. I called you my colleague, but you were right to say you were my friend. I felt as if the whole world had given up on me after I lost that election, but you, who had every reason to be cruel to me, had not. Do you remember what you said to me?”

I did. “I said I hadn’t counted you out. You’d been such an enormous annoyance to me. How could I have counted you out? I was being nice, by the way,” I said.

“Be that as it may, it came at a time when very few people were being nice to me, and, well, your friendship in the years since has meant more to me than perhaps I can even express. I am a hard person to know. And so I am here because I must be here. I am here because I know what you are like. I know that you wouldn’t have asked for the help you needed. You’re a proud, stubborn thing and I could not leave you in a foreign country, broken and alone. Long ago, you did me a good turn, and despite what you or the world might think of me, I pay my debts.”

It had begun to rain so he helped me off the bench. He offered me his arm and I took it. The path was slick with moisture, and it was hard for my damaged foot to negotiate.

“You’re doing much better,” he said. “Just go slow.”

“I have no choice but to go slow.”

“It is nearly summer, Anya. You are much better than you were, and the business with the Light Bars is about concluded. I think we should both return to New York.”

I did not reply for a moment. The world that I had left, with its stairs and buses and boys and plots and gangsters, seemed too much to even consider.

“What is it?” Mr. Delacroix asked.

“Mr. Delacroix, if I tell you something, will you promise not to judge me? I feel weak saying this but I am scared to go back. The city is so difficult to manage. I do feel better, but I know I will never be the same. I don’t want to face the Family or the people in the business, and I do not feel strong enough to go back to my life yet.”

He nodded. I thought he would tell me not to be scared, but he didn’t. “You have been terribly hurt, I can understand why you might feel that way. Let me think of a plan.”

“I didn’t mean that you had to do anything about it. I only wanted to say how I was feeling.”

“Anya, if you tell me a problem, I will try my best to fix it.”

* * *

The next day, he proposed a solution. “My ex-wife, Ms. Rothschild, has a farm outside Albany, in a town called Niskayuna. You might remember that she is a farmer by trade?”

I did. Win used to help her out. The first time I met him, I remembered thinking that his hands didn’t look like a city boy’s.

“The farm is incredibly peaceful. And Jane would be delighted to host you and your sister for the summer. You could rest up, relieved from the burden of city life. I will visit you when I am able. And then at the end of the summer, you’ll go back to New York City a new woman, I feel quite sure.”

“And she isn’t angry with me because of the club?”

“That was years ago, and she blames me, not you, for anything that might have happened. She was always appalled by my behavior where you were concerned, as you have probably guessed. If you’re worried about Win being there, I believe he’s undertaking a premed program in Boston. He won’t be in Niskayuna for more than a couple of days at the end of August, at the most.”

“Good.” I was in no condition to see him.

“So you’ll go?”

“I will,” I said. “I’ve always wanted to get out of the city for the summer.”

“Have you never gone away?” he asked.

“One year, I came close to going to Teen Crime Scene Summer, a program for budding criminologists in Washington, DC, but I struck a deal with the acting district attorney that landed me at Liberty Children’s instead.”

“I imagine the experience was character-building for you.”

“Oh, it was. Enormously.” I rolled my eyes. “Though I have had no shortage of character-building experiences in my life.”

“At this point,” he said, “I think we can safely consider your character built.”

XXII I EXPERIENCE THE SUMMER LIFE; EAT A STRAWBERRY; LEARN TO SWIM

THE HOUSE IN NISKAYUNA was white with gray shutters. In the back was a deck, and the Mohawk River streamed pleasantly by. To the side was farmland—I could see peach trees, corn, cucumbers, and tomatoes. The place looked like summer to me, but not the kind of summer I had ever known. Summer as I had imagined other, more fortunate people lived it.

Ms. Rothschild greeted me with a hug followed immediately by an expression of concern. “Oh my dear, you are nothing but bones.”

I knew it was true. At my last doctor’s appointment, I had weighed less than I had at twelve years old. I was skinny like someone with a disease.

“Looking at you, I want to cry. What may I feed you?”

“I’m not hungry,” I said. The truth was, I had lost my appetite since I’d been injured.

“Charlie,” she said to her ex-husband, “this situation won’t do.” She turned to me. “What are your favorite foods?”

“I’m not sure I have any,” I said.

She looked at me with an appalled expression. “Anya, you must have a favorite food. Please, explain. What did your mother make for you?”

“At home, you know, my parents died when I was pretty young, and my nana was sick, and I was responsible for the meals, so I basically made whatever came out of a box or a bag. I’m not that into food, and I guess, um, that’s why I’ve kind of quit eating. It doesn’t seem worth the bother. For a while I liked mole, but now it kind of has bad associations.” I was rambling.

“Don’t you even like chocolate?” Ms. Rothschild asked.

“It’s not my favorite. I mean, I get it, but it’s not my favorite.” I paused. “I used to like oranges.”

“Unfortunately, I’m not growing them right now.” She furrowed her brow. “It would take me three months to get a crop going, but by then, you’ll be gone. The Friedmans down the road might be growing them, so maybe I can arrange a trade. In the meantime, how about a peach?”

“I’m really not hungry,” I said. “Thank you for the offer. I’ve been traveling a long time. Would you mind showing me to my room?”

Ms. Rothschild barked at her ex-husband to get my suitcase. She linked her arm through mine. “How good are you with stairs?”

“Not great.”

“Charlie said that might be the case. I have a room for you on the ground floor. It’s my favorite bedroom and it looks out on the deck.”

She led me into the bedroom, which had a wide wooden bed with a white cotton cover on it. “Wait,” I said. “Is this your room?” It looked suspiciously like a master bedroom.

“This summer, it’s yours,” she said.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to take your bedroom. Mr. Delacroix said something about a spare room.”

“The bed’s too big for me anyway. I’m sleeping alone these days and probably indefinitely. When your sister comes, she can share the room with you, if she likes. It’s big enough. Or she can take a different one upstairs.”

She kissed me on the cheek. “Tell me if I can get you anything,” she said. “I am glad you’ve come. The farm likes visitors, and so do I.”