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Chapter 2

O ne week later, after roughly two dozen phone calls and a hasty flight down to Georgia, we were running out of reasons not to move forward. At least, Peter was. I was already 100 percent on board.

Juliana was not the Deep South of moss-draped oaks and perpetual humidity; it was the temperate South, blue-skied and softened with a caressing breeze, thick with green trees and flowers and climbing vines. One of the first people we met was Bonnie St. John, the woman in the mayor’s office who called both Peter and me “hon.” She had informed us in her smokey voice that there were currently only two places to eat in town—a barbecue place called Pig Out that was only open on the weekends, and the Dairy Queen. If I chose to open a place like Billie’s, my old restaurant, I would be the only breakfast and brunch game in town. If things went well and I decided to expand my hours and menu, I’d be the only upscale dinner spot as well.

Peter and I drove down a network of streets lined with picture-perfect Victorian houses. Several I recognized from the website, all offered with the same unbelievable $100 price tag. It had been pure luck finding the house outside of town, the one sitting on twelve acres. When I’d called Bonnie to ask about it, she told me that the house and acreage were the property of the town and weren’t included in the hundred-dollar offer.

The scrappy New Yorker in me, unwilling to let anyone tell me what I could and could not do, kicked in. I explained how we’d always wanted land, how my daughter adored the outdoors. I told her I planned to plant vegetables and herbs we’d be using at the restaurant and how that would be an even bigger draw to the place. Bonnie told me she’d see what she could do.

Back at the hotel, we’d met with three couples who’d made the move, asking them every imaginable question we could think of. Peter stayed maddeningly quiet. I knew he wasn’t trying to tamp down my enthusiasm. He was just in his head, weighing all the pros and cons, managing expectations. Allowing himself the room to make a fully informed decision. But I had made up my mind.

It had happened earlier that day during our tour of the town. I’d seen a bronze statue in the square and made Peter park so I could get a closer look. The statue was a little girl, the original Juliana, according to the plaque, the daughter of the founder of the town. She appeared to be about Mere’s age, was barefoot and wearing an old-fashioned dress with pantaloons. Her right arm was outstretched, a butterfly resting on her finger as if it had just alighted there.

A little girl who loved nature. It felt like a sign.

Now, back in our apartment in New York, as Peter and I bumped around each other in our cramped kitchen clearing the dinner dishes, the silence between us weighed on me. The next words we spoke were going to change everything, I knew, no matter which way we decided to go.

I ran water into a cast iron skillet, feeling shaky with nervous energy. I was about to burst, sick to my stomach. Was Peter waiting for me to say something? Was he reluctant to break the bad news that he didn’t want to move? Or was he still truly undecided?

“The suspense is killing me,” I finally said, as lightly as I could manage.

Peter wiped the last dish and put it in the cupboard. He turned and leaned against the counter. I could feel him watching me as I worked on the skillet.

“How long has it been?” he asked. “Since Billie’s closed? Since your mom left?”

“Two years and one month.”

I didn’t even have to count. I’d closed the restaurant on March 15, 2020, the day before Mayor de Blasio shut down all the restaurants in the city except for takeout or delivery. Two days later, my mom had called with the news that she’d put the house on the market and was moving to Maine. The two events had happened so closely together, it was like they’d converged in my mind as one single, colossal disaster.

So, yes. Two years and one month to the day since I’d pulled the plug on my greatest career success, sending my employees home with boxes of food and admonishments to apply for unemployment ASAP. Two years and one month since I’d ceased to be Billie Hope, restauranteur, and had become Billie Hope who stayed home, made pancakes in a cramped kitchen for her daughter, and watched way too many lurid Netflix documentaries. Two years and one month since I’d had an actual conversation on the phone with my own mother.

“What?” I asked him.

“I’m trying to figure out how to word this.”

“Just say it.” I let the pot clatter in the sink and faced him.

He sighed. “Okay. You can’t just do this for yourself, Billie. You know that won’t work.”

“Who said this was just for me? I’m thinking about Mere, too. And you. This would be better for all of us.” It was mostly the truth.

“It’s not going to be the same, opening a restaurant in a small town. You’re not going to have the critics and movie stars and ballplayers or whoever coming in and out every day.”

I laughed. “I know that, Peter.”

“I’m just . . .” He shook his head. “I’m worried it won’t be the same for you.”

“Look, I liked that part about Billie’s—the glamour—I won’t lie,” I said. “But it’s not the part I miss the most. It’s not the part I truly loved about the place.”

“You could always start another restaurant in New York.”

“I could, with a slew of investors. And you could go on seeing people traumatized by living in shoeboxes for the past few years. And Mere could grow up playing kickball in the hallway outside our apartment door. But is that what we really want?” I cocked my head. “Is that what you want?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “I want what’s best for my family. I want my wife happy. My daughter safe.”

“Ninety-six percent of Juliana High School’s graduating class not only attend, but graduate from, a four-year college,” I said. “And the crime rate is practically nonexistent.”

He did that laugh-head shake thing he always did when he knew I’d won an argument. “Okay.”

“Okay, what?”

“Okay, I think I’m up for it. I’m up for moving. As long as you know what you’re getting into.” He smiled at me, his clear brown eyes dancing through his glasses, freckles standing out against his flushed skin. I giggled somewhat nervously, and then he did, too. The next moment, we both burst into giddy laughter.

“Oh my God,” I said. “What the hell did we just decide?”

“We’re leaving New York.”

“We’re leaving New York,” I repeated, the words really hitting me. “I mean, just saying it—”

“—feels right?” he supplied.

It did feel right, in a kind of heart-swallowing, don’t-lookdown way. Finally, after all the heartbreak and fear and grief we’d experienced in the past few years, something was going our way. We were being proactive. Bold. Taking steps to ensure our family had a future.

Just then, Mere, in rainbow cloud pajamas and wet, side-parted blond hair hanging over one eye, appeared in the doorway. “What are you guys laughing about?” Ramsey brushed past her, then leaped up onto the counter and surveyed us three. King of the Kitchen.

“Shoo!” I waved him off the counter, and he let out a crotchety meow, swan-dived through the opening onto the living room floor, and skidded out of sight.

Mere ran to Peter, hugging his legs ferociously. “What’s so funny?”

I scooped her up, burying my nose in her wet blond hair. She smelled like vanilla and mint toothpaste.

“You remember when Daddy and I went on a trip the other day and you stayed with Jane?”

She nodded. “You went to Georgia.”

“Right. Well, we were wondering if you’d like to move down there. There’s a small town called Juliana that looks really nice, we thought. Like a good place for our family.”

She frowned. “How small?”

“Way smaller than New York. It would be like living in a little village but also the country.”

“Like the park, but everywhere?”

I nodded. “Yeah, it’s like a big park. With fields, meadows. A river with a mill and a bridge. It’s got woods, too. Forests.”

She laughed at that. I laughed, too, because the description sounded almost too idyllic to be real. “Does that sound good, babe?”

“We can talk about it as much as you like,” Peter said. “We can answer any question you have.”

“I don’t have any questions.” Mere grinned. A few of her bottom teeth were missing, and for some reason, the sight made my heart twinge. “No questions!” she repeated louder. Now she was bouncing up and down in my arms. “I already know the answer is yes! I want to live in the country!”

“Makes decisions like her mother,” Peter said wryly.

“With her exceptionally trustworthy gut,” I said, then addressed Mere. “You promise you won’t miss the subway rats and the cockroaches?”

“I won’t miss them at all!” She leapt out of my arms, ran into the living room, and started bouncing around the furniture. This riled Ramsey up so much he started racing across the tops of the furniture like a motocross bike with orange fur. We followed Mere. Peter picked her up and tossed her in the air, and I turned on some music. The Stones’ “Honky Tonk Women” blared even though I knew I’d catch hell later from at least two neighbors. I didn’t care. We were all laughing and dancing, giddy with the idea of a completely new life, with the thought of the freedom of cutting ties to this grim, gray city.

From the mantel over the fireplace my phone trilled. I picked it up. Opened the email from [email protected] and read it.

“Peter,” I said. “Peter, Peter, Peter!”

He and Mere both stopped dancing and looked at me.

I held up my phone. “Bonnie from the mayor’s office wrote back. The town council members have decided to let us buy the twelve acres and the house. They’ve sent a contract.”

His eyebrows shot up. Mere looked from him to me.

“We’re really doing it,” I said. “We’re about to be the owners of our very own home. We’re moving.”