Page 10 of Meet Me in the Garden

Claire’s arms are straight above her, the book suspended over her head. “Here’s the part about Libra children: ‘You can make them very grateful to you, if you will allow them to use your cast-off clothing to dress up in.’”

“Well, that’s easy,” Adele says.

“Oh, listen to this part: ‘They are so considerate and kind that they usually spread happiness wherever they are.’” She smiles. “Isn’t that lovely?”

That evening, we walk together to the Laurent house—Bernard and Claire, Al and Adele, and me. Gas lamps flicker on porches. Through lit windows, glimpses of parties in full swing, couples dancing. A jazz band’s playing in someone’s backyard, trumpet notes overtaking the other instruments, breaking into a solo. The party guests cheer and we do, too, listening from the other side of their fence.

Bernard and Al are dashing in their suits. White bow ties, carnations in their wide lapels. Earlier this evening, Claire mixed us Vieux Carrés, used a new vermouth, cut perfect slivers of orange peel with a sharp knife, dropped them in for garnish. We took our time with our makeup and hair. Adele’s, spilling down in soft curls, swept in a barrette on one side. Claire’s, parted down the middle, pin curls all around. They worked together on mine, smoothed into a perfect roll, each bobby pin concealed, my neck left bare. When we stood in front of the mirror, me at the center, I saw how they’d given the most thought to my dress. A sweetheart neckline; bodice fitted through the waist and hips; organza sleeves, hitting above the elbow.

“Well,” Al said when we strode into the living room. “Look who’s all grown up.”

We kissed Baby Rudy, and Al walked him over to Maman’s side of the house. “I feel so free,” Adele says now, running her hand along a fence rail.

“Sweet of Maman to watch him for the night,” Claire says.

Adele cocks her head, thoughtful. “I don’t know if I’ll miss the help when we’re in Los Angeles, or if I’ll sprout wings like a bird.”

“Don’t say that,” Claire scolds. “Of course we’ll miss her.”

“She won’t missme,” Al says. “That’s for sure.”

“Where’s Lionel tonight?” I ask him.

“With some friends in Tremé. Hopefully they’ll end up at the party.”

Claire’s mouth goes tight before she says, “At least we know thatCyrilwill be at the party.” She slows me down. When we’re far enough behind the others, she says, “Lionel’s a good-looking boy, but he’s only going to cause some girl heartache.”

“Oh, I’m not—” I start.

“I know. Just be careful. Now come on, let’s catch up.” She pulls me along, our high heels teetering on the cobblestones.

We reach the Laurents’ and I’m breathless, flanked by my sisters at the threshold, used to arriving alone, down the alley to Hattie’s sewing room door, the house quiet and still above us. But now the front door swings open and the living room is lavish with tinsel and booming with voices and jazz. Cyril greets us, a sparkle in his hazel eyes when he sees me.

“Happy New Year,” he says, and Claire squeezes my hand. He stands back and another man’s voice rises above the noise of the party.

“Well, if it isn’t the children of Louisiana Avenue.”

“Now, who exactly are you calling children?” Adele says, arching one of her impeccably drawn eyebrows. Heads turn to the three of us as she speaks. So sure of herself it takes my breath away. To feel that way, even for a moment.

Felix, who called out to us, dips his head to her. Al says, “Hello, Felix. You still hiding yourself away on that train?” And they hug each other, friends since childhood. Felix is a Pullman porter, works the first-class sleeper cars, disappears from New Orleans for weeks on end. Then he’ll reappear like a magic trick, show up for Mass at Saint Peter Claver, picking up right where he left off.

“Sazerac?” Cyril asks me as I hang my purse.

“Sure,” I say. “Why not?”

“Hattie,” he calls. “A Sazerac for Odette.” She appears wearing a charcoal wool shift and pearls clipped to her ears. She grazes my fingers when she hands me the glass. I blush. How do I look at her face without everyone finding me out? I find a spot near my sisters at the hearth, with Felix and some girls from our ward.

“Did you see her portrait in the window?” one of the girls is saying.

“I went to see it when I heard,” Claire says. “But the building was all closed up.”

“It wasn’t even very flattering,” another girl says. “Her neck was turned in such an odd way. If you’re going to run off with a photographer—awhitephotographer—at least make sure he’s a good one.” Felix watches me from the sofa as the girls talk. We’re the only two not enjoying the gossip. Even my sisters giggle now and then. Claire looks at me and says to the group, “Delphine’s doing just fine. Odette hears from her. So I don’t think it’s too bad to make a little fun. Of course we love her and we wish her the best.”

I spring up and push myself through the crowded living room, through the French doors to the balcony. No one else is out here, but soon Felix joins me, shuts the doors. He and Al have been friends their whole lives, and it’s always been easy between us.

“I couldn’t listen to any more of it,” I say.

“I felt the same.” Everything about Felix is dignified, elegant. A strong jaw, wide cheekbones, smooth skin with never a trace of stubble. He lights a cigarette. Together, we lean over the balcony rail, our backs to the party, facing the neighborhood with its oaks and broad streets and rooftops. He says, “Delphine has a mystery to her, always has. Only a fool would believe she’d lead an ordinary life.” He pulls on his cigarette, exhales smoke into the dark sky. “I wonder if we’ll ever see her again.”