Page 5 of Meet Me in the Garden

“Why don’t you stay a little longer?” Hattie asks.

I kiss her. Shake my head. “I’m meeting Delphine.”

She’s waiting for me when I get there—the garden damp with rain and heat, every shade of green on display, the trumpet vine fragrant and blooming. She narrows her eyes at me. “You were just with Hattie.”

“Maybe I was,” I say. Her hair’s even more tousled than usual, only a trace of color left on her lips, the third button of her blouse unfastened. “And you were with Bill.”

“Maybe I was,” she says, and we laugh. Water pools on the leaves, on the ground. “Can you believe how good it smells?” We push water off the bench seat with our hands. Delphine uses the hem of her dress for the rest.

“I’ve been wondering,” I say. “Are there beignets in California?”

“California,” she says, frowning. I tell her about Bernard’s tables, about the morning’s conversation. The line between her brows deepens as she listens.

“I don’t know what I’ll do,” I say.

We sit quietly. A bright-red cardinal lands on the ground, pecking at the water. “Here,” Delphine says, turning her body to face me. “Tell me about your life in five years. Say whatever comes to mind.”

I close my eyes. “Restaurant lunches at marble-topped tables. Bouquets of wildflowers. Days spent painting. Waking up in a light-filled bedroom, a white curtain fluttering in the breeze. There’s a body next to mine, still sleeping. It’s Hattie. Oh, I’m still in New Orleans. I’m somehow still here. And you’re here, too. You’re across the table from me at lunch, sitting in a curved walnut chair.” I open my eyes, amazed by how fast it all came to me, how certain it felt. A new start in New Orleans, thisplace that I love, where five generations of our family have lived. How could we dream of leaving it?

And now tears rush in because of everything I’ll have to lose to make it true—Adele and Claire and Bernard and Al and sweet Baby Rudy batting his eyelashes.

Delphine’s eyes fill, too. “It’s so hard,” she says. “Butimagine. What a beautiful life. We’re going to have such beautiful lives.”

THREE

FOR A WEEK,Bernard and Al spend the evenings carving prototype tables on the front porch. Bernard walks Al through the process, dictating each move of the knife, and Al’s a careful listener, patient and painstaking, good with his hands. Still, there’s a growing pile of discarded miniature tables—made of walnut, just a few inches tall.

“You two could have a side business in doll furniture,” Adele muses. Bernard’s smile is forced. We all know that if it weren’t for his injured hand, the miniatures would have been finished days sooner, would have been works of art.

By mid-October, they’re well underway on the templates and jigs, working in the mill each day. Claire and Adele fix their husbands a hot lunch, send me to the warehouse district to deliver it to them. In the evenings, the men come home covered in sawdust, weary around the shoulders.

Every couple weeks, we sit around the kitchen table and they talk about California. They assume I’m coming, they’ve never asked me, I resent them for not asking. Claire runs her hands across the gleaming tabletop.

“I’ll make you another once we’re settled,” Bernard says.

She stares at its surface, hand moving back and forth. “But I wantthisone.”

Al’s little brother, Lionel, joins us on some nights. “I can go anytime,” he says. “You just say the word, I’ll be on that train.” Most often, his face bears some trace of a fight—a cut lip, a bruise along his cheekbone. We’re the same age, Lionel and I. We should be friends. But there’s always a swirl of danger around him. “It isn’t his fault,” Al tells us. “Cops have had it out for him since he was fifteen years old.” Several times, Lionel’s called the house from the police station and Al’s rushed over to meet him. They return later, tense and silent. My sisters tend to Lionel’s latest injuries while I hold the baby or take over fixing dinner. On those nights, I say nothing and listen, just as I do when they talk about Los Angeles.

One Thursday morning, right after breakfast, there’s a rustle from the far end of the kitchen, the back door opening, and Maman appears, crossing through the room without looking at any of us.

“We still have some grits in this pot,” Adele says. “Can I serve you some?”

Our mother shakes her head. “I came for cream.” She opens the refrigerator, takes the bottle.

“I could fix a coffee for you,” Claire says.

“No need, ma chère.” She spots Rudy on the floor, leans over to pick him up. He giggles, goes to grab her hair. She sets him back down. “You need to put a hat on him when you go out, Adele. He’s getting darker every day.” Adele stiffens. Maman heads back to the door. Stops. “Odette.” The first time she’s said my name in weeks. My stomach clenching at the sound. “I have the Adamses’ silver here. It needs to be polished by the evening. I’ll need your help.”

“Rudy’s perfect, we all know that,” I say softly, when she’s gone.

“She’s relentless,” Adele says.

Claire frowns. “She doesn’t mean it that way. She thinks she’s helping.”

“You should have heard her go on and on about Al working as a janitor,” Adele says. “I told her he shouldn’t havehadto be a janitor. Hewas smarter than all the salesmen there, knew far more about music than any of them.”

Claire nods. “In California, he’llruna record shop.”