Page 34 of Meet Me in the Garden

His hands unfold, splay flat on the table. “So, for all you know, this girl might be tucked in her own bed at home?”

“My cousin isn’t well,” I say. “Maybe there’s a way for us to know her address and then we can go check on her and her daughter ourselves.”

The older cop sighs, claps the younger man on the back, and heads toward the door he came from. “Sorry,” he says as he goes. “Reuniting long-lost relatives isn’t part of the job.”

The next morning, Claire and Bernard come back over early, before breakfast. I’m curled at the far end of the sofa, running my thumb over the silver compact in my dress pocket. She carried it with her all these years, from her old life and into her new one, before dropping it to escape me.

Adele takes charge this morning. “Al and Bernard, how about you stay home. Keep the line open for a call from Auntie Bertha and watch the children. They can play in their pajamas. We’ll go over to Claire’s house and make some calls.”

I’m grateful as we walk over for my sisters’ rhythmic steps, their determination. They could let it go now, say they did their best and mean it, but Claire sets us up at the kitchen table with glasses of orange juice and the phone book. I read Adele numbers, alternating between police stations and hospitals. She gets through half of them and rests her head on the table. “Why is Los Angeles so big?” She sits up. “It’s possible she just went back to her house. She might be home safe with Bill and her daughter. Everything might be fine. If we just knew her last name, we could find her in the phone book.”

“How could Auntie Bertha not know it?” Claire’s voice drips with judgment, but I don’t respond. I’m feeling the same way about myself. How could I have let her leave without telling me her new name? She never included it on the few letters she sent, so focused on secrecy, and I never thought to ask her. And then, an idea comes—right, but unnerving, my pulse racing at the thought of it. I reach for the phone. Shaky as I wait for an answer, and here’s Mama Laurent, saying hello. “Oh, my sweetheart, my darling,” she says. “How are you and that beautiful boy? Thank you for the picture you sent last month. I put it straight into aframe and I show it to everyone who comes by. I’ve told near every last person in New Orleans that my own grandson will be visiting me next summer.”

“He’s so excited,” I say. “Mama, listen. I’m calling to ask a favor. We’re trying to find Delphine but we don’t know her married name. She never told me and Bertha doesn’t know it either. Hattie has connections with so many of the businesses. Would she ask around for me, find out the name of the man who used to have the portrait studio on Magazine Street? It’s an emergency. We’re all very worried.”

“Magazine Street. Sure, honey, I can ask her. She’s doing a fitting right now but tell me exactly what you want me to say.”

After I hang up, Claire fixes us coffee, New Orleans–style, creamy and sweet.

“That was smart thinking, Odette,” Adele says, and Claire agrees. I can’t tell them how my heart is thundering at the thought of speaking to Hattie again, after all this time. The little hope I had for us died along with Cyril, and we haven’t exchanged a word since.

We drink the coffee in Claire’s sunny yard, the door open so we’ll hear the phone if it rings, and when we finish, she asks, “Want to see a little something nice to take the edge off? I was going to wait for a better time, but maybe it’s just what we need.”

“We certainly could use some cheering up,” Adele says.

Claire stands, smooths her skirt, clasps her hands. “You’ll think it’s strange, but my horoscope said to envision my desires and to act on them, to believe in them.”

She leads us down her hallway, into the second bedroom.

Gauze curtains hang in the window, swept to each side with yellow ribbon. There’s an emerald crib, a cream blanket with scalloped edges folded over. A striped stuffed elephant in a rocking chair. A twin bed against the longer wall, its headboard the same deep green as the crib.

“Well?” Claire asks, eyes darting from Adele to me.

“It’s so pretty,” I say.

“Perfection,” Adele says. “Emerald is such a good choice.” I hear the strain in her voice, feel it in me, too. I’m slipping away again. Red in thetoilet, down Claire’s legs. Red on Delphine’s mouth, around and around and around.

I crouch to touch the rug, cream like the blanket and soft. “It’s right out of a magazine,” I say. I lower myself onto it until I’m flat on my back. I close my eyes.

Lionel comes over in the afternoon, leads me by the hand to Al’s den, pours me a thumb of whiskey and forces me to play Gin Rummy. He takes the first two hands.

“You win,” I say.

“Uh-uh. We’re playing for best out of ten.”

I protest for a moment but he’s right. This is what I need. We keep playing. My focus improves, I make better choices, win some hands, and the phone rings. I leap up and answer.

“Odette?” Her voice against my ear. “It’s Hattie.” Chest flooding with yearning and regret and something else, heavy and undefinable. So heavy I almost can’t bear it.

Lionel’s watching from his chair, Al and Adele from the doorway.

“Thank you for calling me back,” I say. I lock eyes with Lionel so he’ll keep me here, grounded in the den.

“I found a name for you: Robert Kelley. Mr. Halpern told me.”

“Kelley,” I repeat. “Robert Kelley,” and Lionel’s opening the phone book, paging through. “Did Mr. Halpern know anything else about him?”

“Afraid not. I reminded him about the studio, and then he remembered that he’d sold Mr. Kelley fabric to use for backdrops. That was all he could tell me. I hope Delphine’s all right?”