Page 109 of Meet Me in the Garden

A couple evenings later, we’re at her place again. Stripes of light through her shutters, shadows on her wall. “Tell me what happened with Pamela,” I say.

“That morning, after you came here, we fought. She accused me ofthings I never would have done to her.” She adjusts the shutters to let in more light. Keeps her hand on the lever a moment longer. “But at the same time, she was right. I’m not saying I didn’t love her, too. It’s just that it was never the same as with you, and it doomed us, I think. That difference.”

Low in my stomach, a twist of regret and guilt and gladness. For a few minutes I’m unable to say anything. “I’m sorry,” I finally whisper. “I’ve loved you all this time.”

Still, we don’t touch.

Another day, a Saturday, we’re in her living room chairs under an open window. “What should I know about you?” she asks.

“Delphine,” I say. Her name lingers in the quiet of the room. Ginny waits. “She’s alive somewhere. When I let myself think about it, it’s like I’m being swallowed up by grief. To know that she’s living her life and it isn’t alongside mine.” I tell her the story of how we ended, realize it isn’t the right one. I should tell her about everything before—before Los Angeles, before Bill, before her portrait in the window. The story of our girlhood. But it’s too much for me right now.

Ginny’s eyes are sad. Her mother. Her brother. The losses we survive.

Later, she tells me about the courses she took in X-ray technology. The certificate she recently earned.

“When did you start taking them?”

“When it was clear the plant was leaving. Thought it would be best to make a plan right away.”

“I’m trying to hold on to it as long as I can,” I say. My booth with its music, the bustle of the cafeteria, after-work drinks with the girls, the long familiar drive to Hollywood and back… Her hand touches mine, the first time since the party.

“What are you afraid of?” she asks. As absurd as asking if there’s a sky above us.

“Everything,” I say.

She laces her fingers through mine. “But not this, right?”

“Especiallythis.”

“The laws have changed,” she says. “Your children are older.”

When it’s time to go, I walk out of her door, down her front apartment steps to where I’ve parked my car, and the light hits me a certain way—warm and at a slant—and I remember Delphine. We were in the middle of Crenshaw and the traffic was stopped all around us, and she was in a different place, somewhere very far away, and I couldn’t reach her. How lost she was, how unable to see what was true.

I unlock my door, slide in, rest my head on the wheel.

Could it be possible that Ginny’s world is the real one?

At home, Nathalie’s at the table, sewing machine humming, clips of fabric and thread everywhere. She shows me her dress pattern, the progress she’s made. It’s black with thin straps, a bodice with a big black bow at the chest, and a full skirt. “I wouldn’t normally choose a dress with a bow across it, but it’s very sophisticated, don’t you agree?”

“I do,” I say. “I can picture you in it.”

It’s for the Jefferson High talent show. She’ll be performing an original song. “And we just heard the most incredible thing,” she says. “Dootsie Williams is going to be there. He donated some money to put the show on, and Al says that if someone catches his eye he might offer to produce their record.”

I run some water at the sink, watch Clément in the yard with the pigeons, a young man out there with him. He shows the man Ace’s wingspan.

“Would you like to hear my song?” Nathalie asks.

“Yes,” I say. “I would love to hear it.”

We move into the living room. She takes a seat on the piano bench and I sit in my garden-motif chair, where I have the best view of her. She takes in a quick breath, nervous, and begins. Her playing is pleasing, confident, fingers pressing chords and notes, a new effortlessness to it. She’s been practicing. And then she starts to sing.

I gave you my heart in the moon room

We’ll never part in the moon room

Summer might come

and you’ll stick out your thumb