Page 45 of Meet Me in the Garden

“The great A. Philip Randolph,” Felix says.

“That’s right,” Al says. “AndbeforeMr. Randolph came along, the conditions were far worse, weren’t they?”

Bernard sighs, shakes his head. Averts his eyes as Al continues asking questions he already knows the answers to. “All right, Al,” Bernard finally says. “If Columbia starts forcing us to work sixteen-hour shifts for nothing but tips, I’ll sign on. Until then, I’m keeping my nice office and my free lunches and my family health insurance. Remember this?” He raises his right hand, the thick scars on his palm visible, before closing his fingers to make a fist—not as tight as the rest of us can, but tight enough to swing a golfclub, turn a doorknob, pick up a baby.

“I agree that the insurance is nothing to laugh at,” Al says. “But a man should not allow himself to be bought. Complacency is the enemy of progress.”

They go on like this through dessert, through the children’s bedtime, until Al and Bernard leave to play cards with some other managers. They invite Felix along, but he says he’d rather stay here. In the yard, while my sisters wash up, he says, “That’s a sweet young boy you’ve got there. And Nathalie—I see how you care for her. Al and Bernard told me Delphine’s in the hospital but not much else. What happened to her husband?”

“All I know is that he left them.”

“Seems like a lot of trouble for nothing,” Felix says. “Moving out here just for that.”

“I couldn’t explain it to you. I wish I knew. I can’t believe he’d come all this way just to break Delphine’s heart and abandon her. It’s too cruel.”

“You don’t believe people are cruel?”

“I’d rather believe that people are misguided and scared. That they make bad decisions.”

“Ah yes,” he says bitterly. “Misguided.”

“Don’t tease,” I say. “Let me try to believe that Bill really loved Delphine and Nathalie, that he left because of a failure of character. It’s too awful to think it was some kind of trick.”

“All right,” he says. “All right. I’m going to refill my glass and by the time I’m back I’ll have something new to talk about.” He returns with beer for himself, a whiskey for me. “So…” He leans closer, glances over his shoulder. “What the hell kind of name is Titter?”

I laugh. “Rudy called herSister, only he couldn’t say it. He said Titter instead, and it stuck. Her real name is Elizabeth.” Felix shakes his head. “Bobby’s real name is Paul. I don’t have an explanation for that one.”

Felix smiles. He glances at my hand, holding the drink. Looks back at my face. “Hard to imagine that the youngest Honoré sister wouldn’t be taken by now.”

“I’m a Laurent, remember.”

“That’s right. Poor Cyril.”

I close my eyes. “I thought we’d moved on to lighter topics.”

“My fault. Anything you want to know about home? I was in New Orleans less than a week ago.”

I open my eyes again, lean closer to him. It’s as though he’s cast in a warmer light now, like he’s standing under a streetlamp on Magazine Street, and if I get closer maybe I could be in that glow with him. “Less than a week,” I say, my voice low. I want to smell him, to see if home is still on his skin. “How has it changed since I’ve been gone?”

He starts to answer but he’s talking about people I barely remember, bars I never went to. I want to know what took the place of Bill’s studio. I want to know if the trumpet vine is fragrant in the garden. I want to know if the best jazz musicians still play at the Drop. I want to know if Hattie misses me, if she’s in love with someone else. “Actually, don’t,” I say, interrupting. “It hurts too much.”

Later, when he says it’s time to call a cab, I offer to drive him to his hotel instead. I’m careful to say it easy, with no trace of flirtation, and heaccepts. “The city’s going to build a freeway along here,” I tell him once we’re on the road. “It’ll cut down on our commute to Columbia, maybe even by half.”

“A real working girl.”

“I’m a supervisor now.”

He whistles. “You don’t say.”

The night’s drawing to a close. Once I’m alone, Delphine will be in my head again. “Mind if we take a detour?” I ask him. “I could show you something.”

“I’ve got all the time in the world.”

So I drive us up to Hollywood, pull over and park. “See that building right across the street? That’s where I’m moving. Right after the New Year. Me and Clément.”

I find Lawrence’s window, five floors up. A light shines through the curtains. Just over two months from now I’ll be living inside it, keeping my own hours. Clément and I will get ourselves a television set. We’ll eat in front of it if we want to. We’ll play games on the floor. We’ll have people over, spend hours listening to records. I’ll pick out my own plates and flatware and glasses. I’ll choose what to hang on the walls.

“That’s mighty impressive, Odette,” Felix says. “Just you and your boy in a Los Angeles apartment. It’s really something.”