Page 69 of Meet Me in the Garden

“We couldn’t resist,” Claire says. “You know how beautiful their displays are. These were sitting on their own little pedestal, and we stopped dead in front of them at the very same time and said, ‘Odette.’”

“Elegant and also surprising,” Adele says.

“So artistic,” Claire says. “Don’t you agree?”

“I’m going to fill them and set them out as soon as I get home,” I say. “I love them.”

The children are pulling at my arm, ushering me back to the fun. I kiss Adele on the cheek and then Claire, and they say they’ll wrap the shakers back up for me, and the children keep me for ages—having me look through the camera obscura at the trees and the flowers and their faces. Once they’ve tired of it, I gather some dishes and take them inside to the kitchen sink.

Nathalie follows me. “I want to go home,” she says. There’s an edge of panic in her voice. I’m familiar with it, know it means she’s had too much.

“Do you want to wait for me in the car? I have your paper dolls in my purse.”

“Nathalie’s tired,” Claire says from over my shoulder. “You’ve worked so hard today. Let me clean up, you go ahead home.”

“It’s a mess,” I say. “I couldn’t.”

“Don’t give it another thought,” she says. “Tomorrow’s your birthday.”

Adele meets us at the door, handing me my box, hugging me goodbye. “I’m sorry about the mixup,” she says. “We really thought you’d have plans. Wecanskip the shower, if you want us to.” Clément’s in the doorway, Nathalie’s walking out.

“It’s fine. Really. Thank you again for my gift. I’ll use them every day.” I’m embarrassing in my gratitude, but Iamgrateful, and then I’m in the car with my children and Nathalie is dressing white cardstock women in plaid dresses and party skirts.

The next morning, I wake to my bedroom door opening, a shuffle of feet, a pair of giggles, the birthday song. Clément carries a cup of tea, stepping carefully so as not to spill. Nathalie holds a plate with sliced fruit and a piece of toast with butter and jam. When the tea is safely on the bedside table, they pounce on me with hugs and kisses.

“Too bad Daddy can’t be here today,” Nathalie says.

“Yeah,” Clément says. “It’s your birthday.”

“Yes,” I say. “It is too bad. But I have you, and that’s the very best thing I could ask for.”

At work, a group of Finishing and Listening girls surprise me with a gift: a beaded clutch, white and gold, sparkling and substantial. I stroll through Production, taking records off the stacks, pass by Ginny but she’s busy pressing and doesn’t notice me, lean back in my booth and listen to Jo Stafford singing “My Dearest, My Darling.” I find a flaw, race to the machine before too many more have been made. I’ve caught it early, and it’s satisfying, and after work I pick the children up from Our Lady of Victory, all five of them, drop Rudy and Titter and Bobby in front of their house before heading home.

It’s been a good day. A perfectly fine day. But the dinners at Adele’s and Claire’s, the elaborate meals, the special cocktails, the tables set just so. Have I really beensobusy with the girls at work and Elise? So much so that they’d assume I wouldn’t want to spend my birthday with them, as I always have before?

Clément and Nathalie stand in front of the refrigerator, discussing something.

“You’re letting the cold out,” I say.

“There’s no cake,” Clément says.

“That’s true.”

Nathalie stares at me with reproach. “But it’s your birthday.”

Claire would have made me a cake. Spiced carrot with cream cheese frosting. But I’m wallowing. “I suppose I’ll need to make one, won’t I?”

“Chocolate!” Clément shouts.

Nathalie claps her hand over his mouth. “It’s her birthday. She gets to decide.”

“We might be out of powdered cocoa. I’ll have to make do with what’s here, but I’ll pull something together. You kids go out and play and let me have the kitchen.”

I put on Billie Holiday, change out of my work clothes, see what I have in the cabinets and fridge. No cocoa, but plenty of flour and sugar and butter and eggs. A little red food coloring left from Nathalie’s birthday, enough vanilla to flavor the cake and the frosting. The scent of bakingfills the house. I put some water on the stove. We’ll have a simple egg salad for dinner; the cake will be the main event anyway. While the cake cools, I make the frosting, adding drops of red until it turns into a pretty bright pink, perfectly smooth by the time I’m finished with it. I’m feeling better, but it’s taking effort.

We eat dinner on the patio, just the children and me, and they play in the forest part while I wash up. Every few minutes one of them runs up to ask if it’s time for cake. “It’s still chilling,” I say, and they run back down. When it’s finally ready, they stand by the kitchen table, staring at it with wide eyes, panting like puppies.

“We found candles!” Clément says. “Can we put them in?”