Page 57 of Meet Me in the Garden

“They are. Less than a thousand of them left in the whole country, but one of them chose to grace us with its presence. It was a grand old thing. Sure took his time getting out of the way.”

We stay up late playing Spades, playing records. “I should really resume my hunt for a chair soon,” I say. “I’ve kept that corner empty for far too long.”

On Saturday morning, he makes coffee, helps the children build a fort out of fallen palm fronds, while I stay in bed and scan the paper for yard sales. I’m circling the promising listings, when three-quarters down the page, I seeN. Harper Ave. Delphine’s old block. I’ve stayed away allthis time, but the listing’s an invitation, a spell. I dress in a daze, wave goodbye, slip into the car.

On Delphine’s block the residents are out on the sidewalks, front yards and driveways spilling over with furniture and boxes of records, children’s toys and tricycles, roller skates and small appliances and framed artwork, pots and pans and clothing hanging from rolling racks or folded neatly atop card tables. Naomi, who lives in Delphine’s house, is chatting with a couple on the sidewalk, while her tall, blond husband counts out change for an elderly man with a table lamp under his arm. Linda, from two doors down, sits on her front steps with some other women, neighbors, probably, from the way they all survey the crowd. Had life turned out differently, Delphine would have been at the center of these women, the one they turned to when they needed direction or clarity. She’d hear confessions as often as a priest, but when they were over she’d take your hand—no guilt, no shame, no asking for forgiveness. Just her voice in your ear:What does it matter, what anybody thinks of us?

There’s a tap on my shoulder. A short, freckled woman, curvy and smiling. “Anything I can help you find?”

It takes me a moment to remember. “A chair,” I say.

“What kind?”

“Modern. Comfortable but not too large. I don’t care about the fabric as long as the wood is nice. I plan to reupholster it.”

“Oh, I know just the one. Patty had it shipped all the way from Europe, and then her husband had some Paramount people over for dinner and got drunk and spilled his Manhattan all over it. Can youimagine?” I widen my eyes, shake my head. She leads me to the house to the right of Linda’s, past a pile of books, a golf bag with clubs in it, a coffee table with a glass top, until we reach a chair with a brown stain in its cream upholstery. “Do you like it?”

A medium oak without any orange to it, clean lines, brass tips at its feet. I almost laugh. “It’s just what I’m looking for.”

“Patty!” She waves in the direction of Linda’s steps, and a woman in pedal pushers heads toward us. “I have a buyer for your chair.”

“How much does it cost?” I ask.

“Five dollars?” the owner says. “It’s an expensive chair. But that stain is not coming out. Ever.”

I take my purse and pull out a five-dollar bill. And then Linda’s here with us, the rest of the women trailing her.

“Hey,” she says. “You’re Delphine’s cousin, right? I knew I recognized you.”

“Yes,” I say. “Hello.”

“Did you ever find Nathalie?”

I nod. They’re gathered around me now, the women from the block, some of their husbands, too, all of them plainly curious, wanting to know everything I know.

“And how’s Delphine doing?” Linda asks.

“We still can’t believe she disappeared the way she did,” Naomi says, as though she knows anything about her.

They’re all staring, waiting. A whirring in my brain, a pressure in my chest. “I’m sorry to have to tell you. She died in the hospital. An infection.” They gasp in chorus, murmur over each other. I accept their condolences. Their voices sound far away. The children play in the street, the shoppers comb through the stacks. As someone loads my new chair into the trunk, I stare at Delphine’s house, tall and bright, as though it could reassure me that I’m only doing what she asked me to.

Weeks go by, and each time I pass the booths I slow to glance at Kenny and his crosswords.Don’t even dream, I tell myself. Dreaming will only make it harder as I sweat each day on the Finishing line, use my hands to slip records into jackets instead of to draw, endure the thunder of machinery when I could be listening to music.

And then comes a call from Claire, inviting us over on a weekend. “Bernard’s setting up the kiddie pool out back and some sprinklers to run through. Thought us sisters could have some time inside to catch up.” I would drive, but Felix is out with the car, so we walk the half mile over, Nathalie and Clément ahead of me on the sidewalk. Nathalie’s leading him in Al Martino’s “Here in My Heart.” It’s a ballad, number one on thecharts to everyone at Columbia’s dismay, off a small Philadelphia label, a complete wild card. Clément sings dutifully, precisely, but Nathalie’s soul is in it, as though she knows something of the kind of love they’re singing about. She’s just turned seven, and I see a hint of the older girl she’ll become. When they sing the last lines, Clément claps for Nathalie, even though he was singing, too.

Claire greets us at the door, Baby Sebastian on her hip. Her hair’s swept up and pinned back, lovely. She’s wearing a light-blue dress and a string of pearls. Sebastian leans to me and I scoop him up. He squeals. As chubby and perfect as can be. I kiss him on his cheek and he smiles.

“Your other cousins are outside already,” Claire says to Nathalie and Clément. “Did you bring your bathing suits?”

“They’re on under their clothes,” I say.

“I want to listen to records,” Nathalie says.

“A little later,” Claire says. “For now, the children will play outside.”

Nathalie glowers. I put my hand on her head, pull her close to me. “Rudy loves to sing,” I tell her. “Why don’t you try a duet?”

She considers. Gives me a reluctant nod. Follows Clément.