3. Wrenley
THREE
WRENLEY
T he first thing I do after returning to the guesthouse is search for “ Saint, the chef,” on my phone, immediately regretting how little I knew about the man whose food I had practically orgasmed over.
Holy. Crap.
The search results yield dozens of articles. Most feature the same photo: a younger Saint, clean-shaven, his tattoos covered by a pristine white chef’s coat. Nothing like the inked-up, scowling kitchen tyrant I’d just met.
“Michelin-starred at twenty-seven,” I whisper, scrolling further. “James Beard finalist ... revolutionizing Parisian cuisine...”
He’s smiling in one picture— actually smiling—standing next to a petite woman with Ivy’s dark curls, a woman who looks a lot like … no, is identical to…
I sit bolt upright, the springs in the couch protesting loudly. Is that Celeste?
It turns out it’s not because the headline punches me in the gut: Chef Bernard “Saint” Toussaint Retreats from Culinary Spotlight Following Tragic Loss of Wife.
Was Saint’s wife Celeste’s twin sister? She’s never mentioned her, despite our many conversations. And Celeste is always so upbeat and positive. God, I hate when real people turn out to have actual complicated lives. It was so much easier when they were just characters on my feed.
I set my phone down, suddenly feeling like I’ve invaded something private. Which is ridiculous, considering these are public articles, but social media has made voyeurs of us all. We scroll through others’ tragedies like entertainment, consuming their pain from the safety of our screens.
It doesn’t stop my brain from scrolling, though. I met Celeste about a year ago, and the article is three years old, which would make Ivy about two when it happened…
Why am I even thinking about this? I came here for anonymity. I should be planning my exit strategy, not mulling over Toussaint family history.
It’s just that something about the dinner has burrowed under my skin.
Maybe it’s because I recognize the haunted look in Saint’s eyes like he’s survived his own personal apocalypse.
Or the way he watches Ivy, like she’s both his greatest joy and deepest terror.
I know that feeling. It’s the one you get when you understand that happiness is temporary and the universe always collects its debts.
Forcing my head out of the clouds, I head to the bathroom. Its pale blue tiles and old-fashioned brass finishes feel like a sanctuary as I wash my face, avoiding my own reflection.
Old habits.
My hand drifts to the pink streak in my hair, fingers gently probing underneath where my hair is finally growing back, soft and fragile as a baby bird.
Three months since I last pulled there. A personal record.
At first, my followers thought it was just a quirky style change rather than a deliberate choice that started as a desperate cover-up. #PinkHairDontCare.
“Not tonight,” I whisper to myself, forcing my hand away and reaching for my moisturizer instead.
My therapist would be proud. Recognize the urge, redirect the energy . Easy to say when you’re not the one whose scalp tingles with the need to pull until it hurts, until the pressure inside your head finally releases.
I tug off my sweater, wincing as the fabric catches on the raw patches of skin across my left shoulder.
The scratches aren’t deep, but they’re angry.
In the bathroom’s unforgiving light, they look worse than they feel.
Some healing, while others are fresh from this afternoon’s drive.
Shirts with wide collars are my armor lately.
Another calculated misdirection: one flawless shoulder revealed, while the other hides its hurt under fabric.
After I pull on a soft T-shirt, I slip into a four-poster bed with layers of sheets, comforters, and blankets, all a calming blue.
I’m about to turn off the lamp when my phone buzzes, and I flinch reflexively before remembering I’d deleted all social apps a week ago.
The memory of my last live stream still makes my stomach clench.
I have to force myself out of the memory by checking the notification, and notice it’s from Celeste.
How’s the hideaway? Peaceful as promised?
I stare at Celeste’s text for a long time, then type: Your brother-in-law had no idea I was coming. Nearly burned his kitchen down when I showed up.
Three dots appear immediately, then disappear, then reappear .
OMG, did I not tell him?? I SWEAR I texted him last week!
I can practically hear her voice, breathless with genuine horror but also somehow laughing. It’s Celeste in a nutshell, her heart perpetually ten steps ahead of her organizational skills. It’s part of what had us get along so well when we met.
The dots dance again.
Oh god, Wren, I’m the WORST. I was in Bali when we talked, and there was the yoga retreat drama with the fire ants, and then my phone fell into a rice paddy.
But I meant to. Saint’s such a dick sometimes, but he needs the help, and you need the space, and it was perfect in my head!
He’s not so bad once you get past the death glare. Promise. And Ivy’s the best.
I have to smile despite myself. Only Celeste could forget to mention to Saint that she was sending a complete stranger to live on his property.
He didn’t kick you out, did he?? Tell me you’re not texting from your car in some gas station parking lot. I’ll drive up his ass RIGHT NOW.
I decide to put her out of her misery.
I’m fine. Still in the guesthouse. But maybe call him?
Relief that I’m not mad at her pours through her response. I’m so sorry about this! Calling him right now. Love you!!!
Saint’s about to get an earful from his sister-in-law, and I can’t say I hate the idea. I’m trying not to think about the articles I’d found. About the tragedy lurking behind Saint’s eyes. About the little girl who lost her mother so young.
Not my business. Not my problem. Not my life.
I repeat this like a mantra as I drift off to sleep.
Sleep comes in fits and starts, my dreams a jumble of tattooed hands ladling sauce and little girls with paint-splattered fingers. When morning light filters through gauzy curtains, I’ve already been awake for an hour, staring at the ceiling, tracing patterns in the plaster.
The open kitchen is small but well-equipped.
I find coffee beans in the freezer—good, imported ones—and a French press beside the sink.
While the kettle heats, I throw on a robe I found in the bedroom closet and step onto the porch, inhaling salt air that feels cleaner than anything I’ve breathed in months.
The storm that welcomed me to Falcon Haven has left everything glistening. Once my coffee’s ready, I cradle the mug between both hands, letting the warmth seep into my fingers as I slip on my shoes and go back outside.
My shoes sink into the damp earth as I follow what appears to be a garden path. The air smells green and alive, like soil and flowers and pine. A sound catches my attention: birds calling to each other from the trees.
I pause beside a twisted apple tree, its branches heavy with small green fruit. My phone weighs down my robe’s pocket, but I resist the urge to document this moment. No filters needed. No caption required. Just me, experiencing something without a phone in front of my face.
The path curves around a small pond where water lilies float like tiny islands. A wooden bench sits beneath a weeping willow, its slender branches swaying in the gentle breeze. I settle there, tucking one leg beneath me.
“Oh my god,” I moan. “This is beautiful and I love it and I don’t want to leave. ”
A little sparrow that landed nearby tilts its head, unimpressed with my emotional outburst.
Movement catches my eye, a flash of color beyond a cluster of rosebushes. I leave my bench to investigate, coffee mug still in hand. As I round the corner, I nearly drop it.
Ivy kneels in the garden, surrounded by what looks like a rainbow explosion.
Dozens of smooth river rocks are scattered around her, each painted in eye-searing colors.
Her hands are stained purple and green, and there’s a streak of neon pink across her cheek that matches my hair.
She’s wearing pajamas covered in dinosaurs, completely focused on the rock in her small hands.
She looks up, blue eyes widening when she spots me. For a moment, I expect her to bolt or yell for her dad.
Instead, she holds up her current masterpiece, a rock covered in swirls of blue and yellow that somehow form what might be a fish. Or possibly a planet.
“It’s better when you mix the colors,” she announces, as if continuing a conversation we’d been having all along.
“That’s gorgeous,” I say, genuinely impressed. “You have an eye for detail.”
Ivy’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “You can tell what it is?”
I study the rock more carefully. “It’s a ... mermaid?”
She beams. “Yeah! Nobody ever gets it right.”
Without invitation, I settle cross-legged beside her, careful to keep my borrowed robe from getting soaked. She scoots over, making room for me.
“You’re very talented,” I say.
“Nora says I make too many messes.”
“Your nanny?”
Ivy rolls her eyes with such dramatic flair I have to bite back a smile. “She took away my paints yesterday.”
“Ah. Because of the car incident,” I say, recalling our conversation before reading her a story .
“ Before the incident. That’s why I broke into the cupboard and got the paints in the first place.”
I pick up a small, smooth stone and turn it over in my hands. “May I?”
Ivy slides a palette of paints toward me. “You can use the good green. I mixed it myself.”
“Thank you.” I dip my finger into the moss-colored paint.
Ivy picks up another rock and slaps a glob of purple paint onto it. “I didn’t ruin it. I made it pretty.” She looks up at me through dark lashes. “It was a boring white car. I gave it unicorns.”
“Unicorns?” I lean closer, genuinely interested. “With horns and everything?”