Page 126 of Meet Me in the Garden

I didn’t trust it then. Maybe now I do. Carol goes on to describe the life ahead of her, different from what she’d expected. She says she’s going to like it, and I have a sudden vision of Delphine after the hospital, finding herself in San Francisco, in a bookstore where people are gathered to hear poetry read aloud. She’s in her old pink dress with thedropped waist. Sandals hastily clasped around her ankles. A jacket, an expression of wanting. New people around her, new views from every window. Nothing tying her to Bill or her neighbors. Nothing tying her to Camarillo. Trusting that I’m taking care of Nathalie, that nothing needs to tie her to anyone anymore. Her life, brand-new.

Morning comes and I make coffee and kiss Ginny goodbye at our threshold. I refill my mug, warming my hands as I wander past the oak and the coop and the palm and down the steps to my studio. My canvas fills the room. Ready for me. No traces of resentment or anger or tumult in my chest. In their place, new feelings sprouting, soft pinks and greens, like a garden.

And then I start.

In late September, after a day of painting, Ginny and I have dinner on the patio, push our plates aside, open a beer to split between us, stay out as the light fades. Ginny steals glances at me, a question in her eyes.

“What is it?” I ask her, my feet in her lap.

“I want something,” she says. “I don’t know how you’ll take it.”

“What is it?”

“A ceremony. Not anything traditional, but… Marty knows a priest who will bless us. Anex-priest, I should say. Neither of us go to church anymore, I know that. But, do you think…?”

The mornings at Saint Peter Claver. The stained glass in all its colors. Kneeling and rising. Watching my sisters marry the men they love. A thrill, remembering Ginny’s smile.You marry me.

“Yes,” I say.

We decide to have the celebration at home, to invite all the people we love. Phone calls instead of formal invitations. A list of guests, a blankness at the top where our mothers would be. We spend a long night deciding what to do. “We could write to them,” Ginny finally says.

“All right.”

We compose our letters. Each of them brief and factual. No justifying. No explaining too much. We walk them to the mailbox together and drop them in. I save Claire’s call for last. “A priest?” she says. There’s curiosity in her voice.

“I don’t know much about him, honestly. Except that he’s coming on Saturday, October twenty-third, at three o’clock.”

She laughs, an ease I didn’t expect. “Bernard and I will be there.”

“And Sebastian?”

“I don’t know.”

“I only want you to come if you believe that we deserve it. I don’t want anyone here who doesn’t approve, or want us to be happy. Who doesn’t believe this should happen.”

“What if I want you to be happy, but I also don’t know that it’s right?”

“Then don’t come. If you decide that Sebastian shouldn’t witness us, then I don’t want you there either.” I hang up. Ginny’s hand is on my back, a pressure that keeps my breath steady.

Delphine sends her regrets, but a gift arrives in the mail. A set of Winsor & Newton brushes, finer than the ones I buy for myself.To make something beautiful, says the note. I sit for close to an hour, alone in the kitchen with the brushes in my hands. And then I go to the phone and I flip through the Rolodex to a number only the children have ever dialed. Hattie answers on the third ring.

“Hattie,” I say. “This is Odette.”

Even though she’s in her own home, I picture her in the old basement sewing studio. Sometimes she’d take calls there and I’d listen in as she spoke about fabrics and measurements or scheduling fittings.

“Is everything okay with the family?” she asks.

“Yes. Everyone’s doing just fine.”

“Oh, good. It isn’t like you to call me. As soon as I heard your voice, I found myself bracing for bad news.”

“No, nothing like that. Good news actually.” I search for the right words. “The kids told me about you and Estelle. I hadn’t considered that it could be possible. To live openly, that way.”

“Huh,” she says. “Well, you know. It’s New Orleans. We’ve always been a little loose about things here.”

“But you and I used to be so careful.”

“That’s because we weren’t quite grown yet. You get older, you learn more about how to make your place.”