The next day, my mother called.
“How are you?” I asked.
“Jet-lagged,” she said. “Your Aunt Aceline made the most fantastic apple cake, and we are enjoying it, only wishing you were with us.”
“Hmm,” I said, sipping hot coffee. “You sound happy.”
“Aceline made the same type of apple cake when your father and I honeymooned here.” Her voice broke and she sniffed. “Are you opening the farm again, my darling?”
“I’m nodding.”
“Good, because you should tweak the lavender water—”
“I didn’t think you’d leave.”
“Lawrence,” she shrieked, “I begged you to come so we might mourn together, but you stayed. Your father’s death hurts more than I ever imagined it might.”
“I’m sure the apple cake helps,” I snapped.
Hearing her gasp filled me with remorse. “Maman, je suis désolé,” I whispered.
“I lo
