Page 50 of Meet Me in the Garden

“Make the giblet if you want to,” I say. “Either will be delicious.”

“All right. I’ll decide soon. Now for vegetables, should I do the creamed onions again?”

“Yes,” I say. “And I’ll make the scalloped potatoes. People seemed to like it last year.”

Adele hands me a magazine with a recipe for cranberry salad. “Claire,” she says. “You aren’t giving your opinion.”

It’s true. Claire’s been pensive, in her own world.

Rudy and Clément send a handful of tiny toy cars careening down the playroom stairs to the twins’ delight. Nathalie’s across the yard, over by the fence, searching for the last of the season’s blackberries. She stands on her tiptoes, reaching.

“I’m pregnant,” Claire says.

Adele stares. “What did you say?”

“The doctor told us two weeks ago.”

A swell of rightness washes over me. I wrap my arms around her, thankful for the purity of my feeling, the respite from my anger. A reason for gladness. “Maybe it’s a boy,” I say when I let go. “Exactly what you dreamed of.”

Claire dismisses it. “Boy or girl, it doesn’t matter. The doctor says the heartbeat’s strong. It wasn’t the other time. So. That’s all I really care about.”

“Of course,” I say.

“Of course,” Adele says. “Oh, Claire.”

“I know,” Claire says. “I know.”

Claire calls Maman on Thanksgiving morning, arrives at Adele’s flushed and happy. “You should have heard her voice when I told her the good news,” she says. “And I told her all about how grown up and sweet the children are getting, and about your apartment, Odette. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Of course not.”

“Did she say anything about the pictures of the children I sent her?” Adele asks.

“It must have slipped her mind,” Claire says. “I’m sure she loved them.”

It’s a small Thanksgiving this year, just us. We invited Felix to join but he’s on the train. He promised to come for Christmas instead and stay awhile. Lionel arrives just before dinnertime, a bottle of brandy tucked under his arm. Next Thanksgiving, Clément and I will be arriving as guests, too, carrying something we’ve brought to add to the table. So soon, my life is going to change.

And then it’s the beginning of December, and a package arrives in the mail from Maman. Adele cuts the box tape. “Look at all this! Gifts for thechildren for under the tree. And, oh my gosh. Odette, come.” I see her lifting two objects from the box. Framed art, wrapped in tissue.

“It can’t be,” I say. But here they are, in their gold frames, just as I remembered them. A painting of a horizon. A painting of birds in the sky.

“For your new place,” Claire says. “I’m so glad I thought to tell her.”

I keep staring at the paintings. I’m in love with them, but also unnerved. Are they a gesture of peace or a casting away? I can’t tell which.

“Oh, my goodness,” Adele says. “Claire. Look. She sent you her silver tray.”

“No,” Claire says in awe. “Really?”

“Really.”

“And for me…” Adele rummages through the crumpled newspaper. Stops. Rummages again. “Nothing.” She sits back on her heels, blinks hard. “She’sstillpunishing me for marrying Al.”

Claire takes the box from her. “There must be something for you in here.” But Adele leaves the room. “It can’t be,” Claire murmurs. And maybe the paintings don’t have much to do with me at all. Maybe they’re simply another way for Maman to admonish Adele.

The faucet turns on in the kitchen. I find Adele scrubbing, the sink full of soapy water and dishes. I rest my hand against her back. “I should stop caring,” she says. “I should expect it.”

I say, “What would that be like, to stop caring?”