Page 127 of Meet Me in the Garden

“Yes,” I say. “I’m with someone, too. We’re going to have a ceremony. Ginny—that’s her name—she found a priest who will bless us. Have you ever heard of such a thing?”

Hattie laughs. “Sure. I’m very glad for you. When will it be?”

“Just a few weeks from now.”

“Odette,” she says. “Listen. Let me make you a dress.”

“It isn’t a wedding.”

“I know what it is.”

“I’m not sure.”

“What’s your current plan? Some department store thing?”

I laugh. “Not everyone gets custom-tailored clothing, you know.”

“I do know, and it’s a shame. I’m going to have to insist. Will you let me? Or is Ginny the jealous type?”

“No,” I say. “She wouldn’t mind.”

“All right, then. It’s settled. But half our lives have gone by, so long since I’ve seen you. What do you look like now?”

I stretch the cord into the bathroom, look at myself in the mirror. “My hair’s still mostly dark brown. A hint of silver at the temples.”

“How do you like to wear it?”

“Down, most of the time.”

“And what jewelry do you wear?”

“A gold bracelet. A necklace with a medallion, also gold. I have some turquoise earrings that Nathalie gave me. A few bangles that I put on to go out sometimes.”

“So mostly timeless pieces, with a little of the going trends, would you say?”

“I like to think so.”

“While I have you, go ahead and take your measurements.”

“Hattie. The ceremony’s three weeks away.”

“Go on and measure. Take your time.”

I open the kitchen drawer, the sewing tape nestled in back. “All right,” I say. “I’m setting the phone down.”

I wrap the tape around my waist, across my chest, my hips, each time picking up the phone and telling her the numbers. “I can’t fit into the chartreuse dress anymore. I gave it to Nathalie. She’s stunning in it.”

“I’m glad,” she says. “Now measure shoulder to shoulder.” I do, and she asks about what Ginny’s going to be wearing, and what colors would complement it.

“Autumn in California…” she says, and I remember the look she gets in her eyes when she begins to conceptualize a garment.

“I don’t know why it scared me so much,” I say. “The idea of keeping in touch with you. The kids told me about your flat, and your work. The costumes for the opera—they sound beautiful. Are there clippings you could send?”

“No, please don’t apologize,” she says. “I’msorry. About all of it. What I had you do—it wasn’t fair of me.”

And I’m in the passenger seat of a borrowed car with Cyril, heading to our little honeymoon, and he’s nineteen years old and he believes his future is long, is entwined with mine, that it’s only the beginning for us. “I don’t regret any of it,” I say. I repeat the words in my head, trying them on, finding that they’re true. “It gave me my children. It gave me my life. It was another time. What were we supposed to do?”

We speak more, and I listen to her rasp and her drawl. Why did I hide from her for this long? As though all these years hadn’t passed, and I hadn’t grown up and found myself with nearly everything I wanted after all. “Hattie, one more thing,” I say. “Do you know how I can get a hold of Felix?”