Page 71 of Meet Me in the Garden

“What happened here?” he asks, touching my eyelid. “You were crying?”

My eyes still closed, I shake my head. “It’s nothing,” I say, “some birthday blues,” and wave to banish the thought. I hold my upturned palms toward him, and the pause lasts a few seconds too long, and then he sets the plate in my hands.

I open my eyes. A small stack of beignets—a little deflated, their powdered sugar mostly disappeared. Beautiful, still. “Oh,” I breathe. “You were in New Orleans?”

“Another porter wanted my shift. I took the train from Chicago to New Orleans, and then flew back just now. They were hot this morning,” he says. “You’ll need to use your imagination.”

“Are they from Lorraine’s?”

“Where else?”

I set the plate on the coffee table, and we lower ourselves, side by side, on the sofa.

“Ready?” he asks.

We each take one. We bite in. Magnolias heavy and fragrant, rain breaking through the heat, a screen door clapping shut. “My God.”

“Home?” he asks, hopeful.

“Home,” I say, and he smiles.

Outside on the patio he tells me about flying. How the stewardesses served everyone champagne, how plush the seats were. On his first flight, from New Orleans to Denver, he sat in the main cabin. After he switched planes and left for Los Angeles, he sat downstairs in the lounge.

“I had a fascinating conversation with a Lucky Strike salesman,” he says. “Apparently these new cigarettes they’re making protect against cough.”

“I don’t think I believe him.”

“I don’t either. But he was very handsome.”

We laugh. The sound of our voices in the dark, the closeness of us together this way. I thank him for coming home. I turn to catch his eye so that he’ll see how much I mean it, find that he’s watching me already. He has something of his own to say, a question in his eyes. “Odette. I don’t understand how you’re satisfied with this. With me.” And a pain starts beneath my breastbone, sharp and real. “Don’t get me wrong,” he rushes. “You’re my dearest friend. But you’ve just turned twenty-seven. You’re still young. That’s all I mean.” I nod, the pain easing. “I know you had it rough. But isn’t there a chance, still, of romantic love? Even a small chance? Or is it really only Cyril, forever?”

How can he know me so well, and treat me so sweetly, and have me so wrong? But he’s only being kind. He has his discreet romances, and his long trips away, and his nights spent in bars and clubs, doing whatever he wants to. Only good of him, to take note of the differences between us.

I force a smile. “I have everything I need. I’m happy, really.”

I look at my water glass. My hand holding it, the thin gold band around my finger. This secret—it’s made a fortress of me. I’ve kept it forso long; how could I ever tell him now? I can’t meet his eye. After a time, he pats my knee. “It’s gotten late,” he says. “Sweet dreams.”

I stay outside as he prepares for bed. Clean up my painting supplies, set the still life aside to finish another night. And then I join him in our room, both of us breathing in the dark.

TWENTY-FOUR

ACOUPLE WEEKSLATER, THERE’Sa knock at the door of my booth. I glance up from my drawing and Ginny’s here. White button-down shirt and blue jeans, back straight, hair tucked neatly behind her ears, accentuating the line of her jaw. My body hums at the sight of her. “There’s a flaw, I think,” she says, holding up a record.

All I can do is make room for her, close the door, even though it goes against the rules I’ve set for myself. We aren’t supposed to be this close to each other, let alone in here, where there’s no hope of keeping distance. She holds the record by its edges. There’s no label on it yet but I know what it is. All week, we’ve been pressing Doris Day.

“Which song?” I ask.

“‘Secret Love.’”

“Where?”

“Let’s listen from the beginning.” She draws the curtain shut.

Dimmer now, my pulse racing. I know which side to play based on the space between the deeper grooves, know where to place the needle for “Secret Love.” I’ve listened to the record dozens of times, but still—when Doris Day’s voice fills the booth, the lyrics are torture. A secret love, impatient to be free. Too much with Ginny here. I try to hearwithout listening—to make the notes only sounds, not a declaration of love. A minute passes, two. Ginny’s hands rest on her knees, her nails short and smooth.Listen to the song, I remind myself. But also—don’t. The music swells—I’m sure I’ll hear it soon, a pop or a skipped note. But then it ends. “I didn’t hear anything,” I say.

“How odd,” Ginny says, but she’s hiding a smile.

A flare of anger. I’ve been trying so hard. “‘Secret Love’? This is a joke?”