Chapter 14
Power of the Pidé
This morning, Isabel texted, and I surprised myself by replying, before I could overthink it:
Isabel
Would it be all right if I invited a few of Ahmet’s favorite islanders?
AVA
I’d love that
By late afternoon, we’re cooking for Isabel, for Ahmet, for the people who loved him best—and, if I’m being honest, maybe for me, too.
I wash my hands and slip on the apron Isabel hands me. It’s flour-streaked, worn thin in the middle, and probably older than me. Behind us, flames lick up the wood-fired oven, and I now see an open door in the kitchen that leads to the garden.
“What are we making?” I ask.
“Pidé,” she says with reverence. “Flatbread from my childhood. My Ahmet used to say, if you can make good dough, you’ll never go hungry.”
She sprinkles flour on the counter and shows me how to stretch the ball of dough. Not too thin, not too fast. It resists at first, but then, it gives a little.
I try to mimic Isabel, but my piece stretches unevenly. One end tears. I press too hard. The shape warps.
“Wait—” Isabel stops me gently, placing her hands over mine. “Not so much pressure. Let it guide you.”
I exhale, try again. Slower this time.
Together, we press it into something vaguely canoe-shaped to cradle the good stuff. The second one comes out better. Not perfect, but closer. My shoulders relax a little.
The prepared fillings—spiced lamb, sautéed onion, feta—smell like something worth believing in. We lay them onto the base, then brush the edges with egg before sliding the pidé into the oven.
I’ve brought my own offerings to cook. I roast red peppers until their skins blister and curl. Blend them with walnuts, Aleppo pepper, and pomegranate molasses I made from the fruit I picked yesterday. All of it, now: muhammara.
I soak bulgur, chop parsley, mint, scallions, and tomatoes, then let the tabbouleh wake up in lemon and salt. The rice pilaf simmers with toasted vermicelli, filling the kitchen with its rich, nutty scent.
Chicken kebabs hiss on the grill, marinated overnight in yogurt, garlic, onion, and spices. For the first time in ages, I feel my body remembering something my mind had almost abandoned. There’s a rhythm that happens when I cook, and I can feel it returning to me.
Isabel watches me. “Your mother taught you?”
I nod. “And a few professional chefs. But mostly her.”
My throat tightens. I haven’t cooked like this since her. But I don’t say that out loud. I just add more salt.
As I finish the food, Isabel moves through the garden, lighting candles, her linen dress fluttering in the sea breeze. Andréia, a local flower farmer and sound healer (everyone has at least two jobs on the island), drops off beautiful wild bouquets to help us with our decorations. Batu, Isabel’s impossibly strong Turkish nephew, clears a space. Then he and a friend haul the old table out from the l’orangerie like it weighs no more than a broomstick.
I’m introduced to Tara, a petite woman with an asymmetrical bob and a septum ring. She’s the local who helped turn a weathered boat shed into The Barnacle, which Cari insists is the most enchanting bar on the West Coast. Tonight, she’s setting up an outdoor bar in the garden for us, laying out bottles, cut citrus, and shrubs. It’s not formal, but it feels sacred.
As the guests begin to arrive, I remember that Patricia said the island favors the accomplished and the unconventional, often in the same body—and tonight’s no exception.
There are Sara and Duke, owners of the local bookstore. Sara—half-Japanese like me—greets me with a smile so open it feels like an embrace. Duke, just as welcoming, wraps me in a hug that smells faintly of cedar and the gunpowder he uses to make works of art. The town calls them the Duke and Duchess, and I immediately understand why.
Lee, the baker at Brown Bear Baking, arrives with his handsome husband, David, and a warm loaf of their Mission Fig & Apricot hearth bread for me. I haven’t even taken the first bite before deciding we’re lifelong friends.
Then comes Melissa, an ex-cop who now teaches Pilates. She’s tall, broad-shouldered, the kind of woman who could pin you with a stare or realign your spine—or probably both. She offers me a nod, all business and bone-deep kindness. It’s like being assessed and welcomed at the same time.
Martha and Joe follow. Neighbors in their seventies, Isabel tells me. Martha has the energy of someone who once drank champagne with Georgia O’Keeffe. Pixie haircut, paint-smudged fingers, cornflower blue eyes. Joe has the kind of charm that sneaks up on you. You’d never guess he made a fortune, or that he’s been quietly giving it away for years.
They settle in as if this is something they’ve always done—breaking bread, lighting candles, and remembering someone by the food he loved.
And then, the last guest steps through the garden gate.
Gavin. A bottle of Narince Turkish White in one hand. Sleeves rolled to his forearms. The late sun slides across his shoulders, catching in his hair, softening what I remember as hard, unyielding edges.
I see Tara’s eyebrow lift as she watches him out of the corner of her eye. Melissa gives him a quick once-over before turning back to her wine. He’s not just handsome. He’s the kind of beautiful that feels almost dangerous, like standing too close to the sea during a storm.
This is not the Gavin I knew in New York. The one too busy, too aloof to linger anywhere.
Here, in this garden, with candlelight and the scent of citrus and soft laughter, he looks … at home.
I blink. The abandoned garden. The l’orangerie. The café.
He’s the landlord.
And he’s watching me as I carry out the salad—mint, pink radicchio, fennel, blood orange, raspberry vinaigrette—and nods, just once.
I take the last open seat, next to him, preparing to ask about the garden, if it’s okay that I tend to it. But before I can say a word, he leans in slightly, his voice low.
“Isabel said you want to work in the garden.” A pause. “It’s yours as long as you want it. It suits you.”
He doesn’t look at me when he says it. But it lands all the same.
When everyone has a drink, Isabel stands with a glass of wine in her hand, her fingers trembling just enough to make me ache for her.
She clears her throat. “Ahmet used to say, ‘When I die, don’t just bury me. I want you to feed people. Let the flavors remember me better than I was.’”
A pause, soft and full.
“I never held a memorial,” she says, her voice catching. “I didn’t know how. But tonight … with Ava’s help … I cooked for him. And I remembered.”
She sets a plate at an empty seat, tenderly, like she’s placing it into someone’s waiting hands.
No one speaks. But the silence feels like something being honored.
Maybe even healed.
Pomegranate seeds glint like rubies in the candlelight as we pass food like memories between us.
The dishes are warm, flavorful, and honest. There’s the sharing of bread, island stories, and laughter.
I glance around the table and wipe a tear, a happy one.
When I look up, Gavin is watching me.
Just for a moment, we’re two people who see something at the same time, and neither knows what to say.
He glances away, but not before something passes between us. Recognition, maybe? Or understanding.
Once we finish dessert, Gavin raises his glass. Everyone follows.
“To Ahmet,” he says, then turning to me, he adds: “And the people who make us hungry for life.”
We clink. We sip.
The making of food didn’t come easily tonight. That’s the point.
But something’s blooming here—slowly, wildly, maybe even in the right direction.