Page 25 of Meet Me in the Garden

“You must be excited for tomorrow,” I say.

She shrugs. “I haven’t even been to Montana.” For the first time tonight, she seems unsure. “You didn’t tell us what you saw for yourself. With your cousin.”

“I saw a lot of things. They seem silly now. A second-story bedroom with white curtains. Lunches at nice restaurants. A vase of wildflowers at my kitchen table. I thought I’d stay in New Orleans.”

“Anything else?”

My pulse quickens. I answer before I can think better of it. “A woman in my bed.” I’m leaning against the wall now, too, a foot away. Her gold chain glints in the light just above us, disappears into her shirt. “I’ve been wondering what’s on your medallion.”

“You’re welcome to look.”

I expect her to take it out for me but she doesn’t. She waits, so I step closer and I slip my fingers between the chain and her neck. I pull until it’s here, warm in my hand. A lion’s head with a full mane and a powerful gaze.

“It’s beautiful,” I say. So is the dip of her throat, her neck, the soft angle of her jaw. I pull her shirt open at the collar and tuck the medallion back in. Her eyes roam my face.

I lean toward her, ever so slightly, and it’s all the confirmation she needs. Her mouth on my mouth, so easy, like this is something I do. LikeI haven’t worked hard to snuff out any kind of longing. Her palm on my cheek, taking her time. My whole body warm with it. It’s a kiss for what might have been, a goodbye before we started. It’s soft, and it’s teasing. Safe because she’s leaving.

By the time Lionel and I get into the car, something inside of me has shifted: a window swung open, view to a different landscape. I can make out a little life for myself. An apartment of my own, just me and Clément. Friends come over; we balance plates on our laps and talk for hours. We go to the pictures. We go to dinner. Clément spends the night with his cousins sometimes and I stay out or bring a woman home with me. Years, since I’ve been with anyone in that way. Intoxicating, that such a thing is possible.

“Something on your mind?” Lionel says.

“Do you ever think about moving out?” I ask.

“Sure,” he says. “Al and Adele won’t put up with us as housemates forever.”

“I heard Al call your room ‘the den’ the other day.”

He glowers at the road. “Ominous.” A minute later, he sighs. “It did hit a certain way, didn’t it? Seeing Ginny’s place. I could get used to something like that.”

“Me too.”

“You don’t see yourself getting married again?” His voice is measured, careful. Maybe he noticed how long Ginny and I were outside. Maybe he’s on the verge of finding me out. Maybe I’ll let him one day. The thought of it swarms me. Dangerous and enticing. Not yet. Not yet. But there’s a charge between us and I want to give him at least part of the truth.

“No. I’ll never get married again.”

We reach the driveway, headlights shining on the neat lawn and the camellia, the upright mailbox and paved path, the cream exterior, the comfortable family home on a block of comfortable family homes.

He cuts the engine, turns off the lights.

TEN

WINTER SWEEPS IN, THE CHANGEso subtle I can barely feel it. A quiet Christmas. New Year’s streamers in the coworkers’ lounge. Claire joins us for dinner again. She shows up at the house with a bright bouquet and a cheerfulness that instructs us how to treat her. We won’t speak another word about what happened. We’ll go on as we always have. Weeks pass and I study her for hints of blame or resentment. She acts no differently toward me than she did before, and I stop watching her quite so closely.

Each payday, through the winter and into spring, I go to the bank and cash my check, deposit a quarter into Al’s mortgage account, put half of what remains into a shoebox in my closet, keep the other half for household groceries, clothing for Clément and me, occasional drinks or dinners out with the Finishing girls. At work, during lunches and coffee breaks, I interview everyone I meet on where they live, how they manage it. Janine and her cousin share a one-bedroom apartment off Wilshire, but in two months her cousin’s moving out and the place will be all Janine’s. “I can’t wait,” she says. “Right now, my so-called room is a Murphy bed directly across from the front door. Impossible to get any privacy at all. It’s going to feel like a palace once it’s all mine.”

“And you’ll be able to afford it all right?”

“It’ll be a stretch. You girls might have to buy my drinks now and then.”

Ivy lives at home with her parents. “It’s fine,” she says, tapping her cigarette on the ashtray, sipping her coffee. “I’m barely there anyway.”

Sally lives with her husband in a cottage behind a bigger house in Culver City. Before that, though, she shared a place with five other girls. “Chaos,” she says. “But the very best kind.”

One night in the spring, Lionel slips in right before dinner in his paint-splattered work clothes and tells us he has some news. He unfolds his napkin, lays it on his lap. “I just signed a lease to an apartment.”

Envy flares in my chest.

Adele beams. “You don’t say.”