Page 93 of Meet Me in the Garden

Clément nods. “Nathalie, do you think so?”

“I do.” She’s standing tall, composed. As though KR’s death has wiped away every other concern. “Don’t worry about anything today, Mommy,” she says. “Clément and I will make all the food and we’ll do the chores, too.”

Clément agrees.

“All right,” I say. “I’ll work on this all day, then.”

And I do—in the hours that follow, and the days after that, rising early before work and returning to the studio as soon as I get home. Nathalie dons my apron, makes breakfasts and lunches to pack in their schoolbags. They make dinner together in the evenings, Clément sneaking looks at my progress when he comes down to ask what temperature to set the oven, or what to substitute for nutmeg. They set our places on the patio, serve mushy string beans and mashed potatoes. Macaroni with an unidentifiable blend of spices. They stop me from cleaning afterward, sending me back down to work instead. I’m racing against time as the flowers fade and the bird begins to smell of death. I’m painting all the feathers I can see, each stripe and curve of neck and wing, the prehistoric feet and claws, the crooked smiling beak and the deadened eyes. And as I paint, my mind goes to so many places. I’m in the pink tub and the kids are small, peeking at my body from the other side of the curtain. I’m onthe sand, watching them hold hands and lose their footing as waves come in and lift them. We’re in my old bedroom, readingGoodnight Moon.

The bird is finished, and the flowers, and the candles, but the painting still needs something. And then I’m up in the house, opening the game drawer in a trance, finding the velvet bag of Jacks pieces. Moving to the drawer in the telephone alcove, sorting through to find Nathalie’s long-forgotten envelope of paper dolls. I carry them down with me and scatter them on the tabletop. Silver Jacks and miniature flat dresses and hats and trousers. I touch the canvas to make sure it’s dry, reach for new tubes of paint to mix. How suddenly the end comes. How difficult to look, and keep looking, until it all loses its strangeness and I see it for what it is. Shapes and textures and color and absence and with every stroke of the brush a whisper:It’s all right, it’s all right.

THIRTY-ONE

THE BOUGAINVILLEAis in full bloom by the gate, the cactus growing dangerously close to the mailbox. I turn the metal latch and reach inside. Thick cotton envelope,The Santa Barbara Museum of Artprinted in the upper corner. I tear it open there on the sidewalk. An invitation to a private reception:Fruits and Flowers in Painting, August 11, 1958.Back in the house, I dial Elise.

“I’ve never been to Santa Barbara,” I say when she answers.

“The exhibit is going to be beautiful—Picasso and Matisse. Van Gogh. Stettheimer. Some newer artists, too. We let them borrow the O’Keeffe from our collection. I have a place for us to stay and a restaurant I’m dying to take you to.”

She drives us along the coast, top down, scarves wrapped around our hair. In Santa Barbara, the ocean’s bright blue and distant, the buildings creamy white with red clay roofs. Elise winds up the hillside, turns off the road onto a gravel drive. We get out and sling our overnight bags over our shoulders. I’m struck by the ease of it—the slopes of the hills, the casual way Elise turns over a pot outside the front door and reaches for the key she knows is there.

“Remind me how you know these people again?”

“We went to Stanford together,” she says. “They’re part of the wholegang. Fred and Melinda and Harry and us. Except they’re always traveling now so we mostly just use their house.”

“Too bad I won’t get to meet them.”

“Oh no, it’s much more enjoyable when they’re gone. All they do when they’re home is show you photo albums and souvenirs from their trips and get deeply, troublingly drunk. Once they told me an hour-long story about an elephant they met on safari, and theysobbed. I have no doubt that a personal encounter with a grand creature could have a profound effect, but clearly, it’s the kind of thing you keep to yourself. Now I can barely see a picture of an elephant without remembering how Rodger boohooed in Carolyn’s arms in front of us. It was like someone died, really. His nose was running, she actually startedsingingto him—some tribal song from the trip. I swear to you, I’ve never been so uncomfortable in my life. If they didn’t have such a fabulous guesthouse I might have cut things off with them right then.”

She’s leading me down steep stone steps, and curved, wall-like clusters of bamboo, to an opening where two small Japanese-style structures are separated by a pond and an arched wooden bridge.

“Now,” she says. “You can see how it’s worth it to forgive them. They flew an architect out from Kyoto to recreate their favorite inn. Have you done the Japanese bathing ritual?”

“Definitely not.”

We slip our shoes off in front of the first little building and tuck them under a bench by the door. She takes hold of a handle and slides a wood panel aside, revealing a deep cedar tub with a circle of smooth stones around it. “You shower first,” Elise says. “And then get in the tub. The water’s special, has some minerals in it. And it’sveryhot. And here’s drinking water for tea and lounging. I’ll get it started now. And then you shower again and that’s it!”

I laugh. “All right,” I say. “I’ll try it.” I’m tentative at first, undressing next to Elise, taking turns under the showerhead, lowering into the tub. She’s efficient, practiced, keeps her eyes straight ahead. I follow her lead. And then we’re both in the water, so hot I lose my breath, and she looks at me again and says, “You haven’t said much about Ginny lately.”

My body gives in to the heat, my lungs take in air. I turn my face to the wooden ceiling. “She’s still with Pamela.”

“You know… you and I never talk about sex.”

“That’s true,” I say. I close my eyes. “It’s probably my fault. I’m so used to keeping it a secret. And there’s not much to talk about. I’ve been alone for most of my life.” She’s quiet and my words play over. “That sounds self-pitying. I don’t mean it to.”

“There are other women, you know. Besides Ginny.”

“Yes,” I say. “I know.”

“I had sex with a woman once.” She says it as though she doesn’t really care, with an air of just having thought of it, but I know her well enough to catch the nervousness under it, the slight twitch and blink. “Not sure why I didn’t tell you before,” she says.

“When was it?”

“About a year ago. It wasn’t all that satisfying. We were attracted to each other but neither of us knew how to be the aggressor. I spent all my life learning to be an object of desire. But then when there’s something I really want, I don’t know how to take it. I just lie there like a rag doll.”

“I see you as a person who gets what she wants,” I say, but once I’ve said it, I realize it’s not quite right. She’s telling me something about herself. I owe it to her to believe her. “A year ago…” I try to place her in time. More recent than Mexico City andGiovanni’s Room.

“I don’t know why I didn’t tell you.” She stands abruptly, slim stomach and pale thighs pink from the heat. She steps out of the tub and slips on a robe. “She reminded me a bit of you, actually. That’s why I noticed her at first. Gorgeous.”