Page 41 of Meet Me in the Garden

I laugh and find one for her. Touch flame to the tip. She takes a long drag, lets it out. Curl of smoke in the dim light. She’s still on the floor in front of me and I’m scared to take a seat myself, scared to move much in case it might startle her out of whatever this is, this other side of my sister that I might be able to know.

“Sometimes I envy you,” she says, narrowing her eyes at me. “Going off to the plant in the mornings with Al and Bernard, having a wholelifeoutside of this.”

“It’s hard,” I say. “It’s rarely fun.” But I suspect that she can seethrough me, and I don’t want to lie to her anyway. The Finishing line is grueling, so loud that sometimes, on the drive home, Al and Bernard’s voices sound muffled. My shoulders ache all the time. My heels hurt. And still, I’m one of the most efficient girls in the department. I’m training to become supervisor. “I do love working at the plant, though. Being part of it.”

She nods, satisfied. “I’m just going to finish this cigarette, and then I’m going to get back to cleaning.”

“No,” I say. “Let me do it. You just sit here.”

She doesn’t agree, but I get to work gathering everything up. I take the dishes to the kitchen, and she hasn’t moved by the time I return. Her cigarette is burning down so I set the mother of pearl ashtray next to her. She doesn’t thank me and I wonder how she knows to give me exactly what I want, and then I realize that maybe, right now, we are perfectly, miraculously aligned. She rests her head against the wall, closes her eyes. I wash the remaining dishes, dry them, put them away. Clear the carpet of toys. Empty the ashtrays and set them back in their places. Find the red shoe’s match, rest the pair together on the rack by the door.

“What’s next?” I ask.

“I wish we were going to a party,” she says.

“Oh,” I say. “We are. It’s time to get ready.” She laughs. “Really,” I say, taking her hands, pulling her to standing. “Go get dolled up.”

She shakes her head and disappears down the hall and I peek into Al’s den where there’s a little table in front of the love seat. Perfect. I move a taper candle from the credenza and set it on the table, flick the lighter again, race silently down the hall and into my room. I grope through my closet for a dress hanging deep in the corner beyond my everyday clothes. Find it by touch, slick and substantial. Ease it off the hanger.

I slip it on in the bathroom off the hall. It hangs heavy and luxurious, the finest thing I own. I’m back in Cyril’s room, watching Hattie tie the box to my suitcase, and then in Los Angeles, opening the lid to see what Hattie sewed me. A chartreuse silk dress, made with an intimate knowledge of my body. Cinched at the waist, like she’s holding me there.

I apply lipstick and blush, a barrette to sweep my hair up, opal danglesclipped to my ears. I’m back in the living room by the time Adele emerges from her bedroom.

“Thatdress,” she says. “Whenever you wear it, I’m full of envy.” She’s in champagne organza with a gemstone necklace that catches the light. Claire has one that matches it, from a party with Les Dames Amis.

I take two glasses and Al’s bottle of whiskey from the credenza, and gesture toward the den. The room has transformed since Lionel’s been gone. A love seat and a desk and a freestanding record player. “I’d like to welcome you to TheDenison. Or the Denver?”

“The Denison sounds like a grand old hotel.”

“The Denison, then.”

I put on Billie Holiday, just loud enough to fill the room. I pour us drinks and we sit on Al’s chairs, and Adele flings her head back and croons along with the music, her voice smooth and strong against Billie’s rasp. She sings with the entire A side of the record, sure of every lyric, sipping her drink during the instrumental parts.

“You should sing more often,” I tell her when the music stops.

“I sing every Sunday at church,” she says pointedly. “And at the club.”

“No scolding allowed at the Denison.”

“As long as you get me another drink.” I do, but when I set the bottle down and hand her her glass, she’s frowning at me.

“What is it?” I ask. She bites her lip, hesitating. “Go on.”

“Come back. Sit. Please don’t be angry. It’s just—Claire and I have wondered if something happened on your honeymoon. Something you didn’t tell us. Did Cyril treat you all right?”

It comes from nowhere, so many years late, lands heavy in my chest. “Yes,” I say. “He treated me fine.”

“But then, why don’t you want another man in your life? We thought he must have donesomething.”

“It was nothing like that. He was very sweet to me.” I shift. “All of it was a shock. How fast it went, how unsure I was. I love Clément more than anything. Of course. But pregnancy,childbirth…” I shake my head, stop myself there. Nothing had prepared me for it. Bloody andterrifying, my body shuddering afterward, teeth chattering, barely able to speak. From the hospital bed, I’d asked Adele if it was normal and she’d waved the question away, said I had a healthy baby, I was healing fine. But in the days that followed I still couldn’t tell. All I could do was watch Clément’s belly move up and down, prove to myself that he was alive. “I can’t do it all over again,” I say now.

She lifts her glass to her mouth, tips her head back to sip, silver bangle circling her wrist. She swallows. Looks into her glass. “Marriage isn’t only about having children, though. It’s about feeling like a woman. Excitement and anticipation. Safety. Letting yourself be taken care of. Does it really seem so bad? What Al and I have? What Claire and Bernard have?”

“Of course it doesn’t. You know I love Al and Bernard. You’re the happiest couples I’ve ever known. I just want something different.”

“And your something different is to live in an apartment, just you and Clément. That’s how you see your life, for the long term?”

“Don’t you ever fantasize about it? Your own place, your own decisions?”