The Strange and Beautiful Sorrows of Ava Lavender (24 page)

MY GRANDMOTHER
was in the back of the bakery, trying to keep up with the demand brought on by the solstice celebration. It seemed no matter how many trays Penelope slipped into the display case, there were still hungry mouths to feed. So feed them they did.
Éclairs au chocolat
,
mille
-​
feuille
,
pâté sucrée.
They’d even designed a special solstice cookie shaped like the sun and topped with yellow frosting. While taking a moment’s break, Emilienne watched with pride as the girls carefully folded boxes around purchases, rang up orders, made change, smiled at impatient customers — all with efficient grace. Emilienne chuckled to herself. It was hardly appropriate to refer to them as girls. Wilhelmina had helped her run the bakery for more than thirty years now, and Penelope’s children were both teenagers. While her own reflection constantly shocked her — the delicate wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, the coarse white wisps of hair threading through the black — Emilienne didn’t notice how time had changed the women with whom she’d spent every day for so many years.

In the front of the store, Ignatius Lux flirted with Penelope as she tied the string around his purchase with a flourish.
That poor husband of hers
, Emilienne thought with a smile. Penelope’s marriage to Zeb Cooper could have been a rocky one, considering Penelope’s flirtatious manner, but Zeb was a trusting fellow and adored his playful wife. From what Emilienne had been able to tell, they’d also done a good job raising their children.
Both Cardigan and Rowe have proven to be good friends to Ava
, she thought. Rowe would turn eighteen in a couple of months. He’d leave for college soon after.
How time flies
, Emilienne mused. Though it meant losing her delivery driver, she was glad to see that Rowe wanted to do something with his life beyond driving a truck full of baked goods. He was smart, that one.

Wilhelmina, toting another empty tray over her head, brushed by Emilienne. “That Ignatius Lux just bought the last
congolais
,” she said. The coconut biscuit was a customer favorite.

Wilhelmina’s long braid was dusted with white, whether from flour or age Emilienne was no longer sure. Wilhelmina tossed the tray on top of an already-wobbling stack waiting by the sink to be washed. Emilienne meant to move then, to get a start on those dishes she knew would take all night to clean, but her feet seemed unwilling to move. She leaned heavily on the wooden table in the middle of the room. Nostalgically, she smoothed her hands across the top, feeling the little cracks and nicks that covered it. Over the years this table had been used to pound out the dough for baguettes, croissants, morning rolls, and cinnamon buns. When Viviane was a baby, this was the table upon which Emilienne set her bassinet while she made all those loaves of bread no one would buy.

“Lord knows that man could stand to miss a few sweets now and then,” Wilhelmina added, puffing out her cheeks and making a big arch over her own flat abdomen to indicate the girth that hung over Ignatius Lux’s belt.

Wilhelmina’s hands were quick as she arranged a tray of
tartes tatins
for display.

She glanced over at Emilienne. “You sure are quiet tonight, boss-lady.”

Emilienne rubbed her eyes. “Just a long, strange day. That’s all.” It seemed to Emilienne that more than her three deceased siblings were haunting her today. Earlier she could have sworn she’d seen Levi Blythe, the first love of her life, ordering a solstice cookie. The boy she knew only as Dublin had winked at her through the window. Satin Lush watched her from one of the wrought-iron chairs in the middle of the bakery. And each step she took was echoed by the hollow thump of her husband Connor’s cane. All the loves of her life.

Wilhelmina whistled. “Has the solstice gotten to you? Made ya all nostalgic and weepy?” She threw Emilienne the dish towel she had slung through her apron strings. Emilienne hadn’t known she was crying. She quickly wiped her eyes with the damp towel. Emilienne hated to admit it, but the busy day had been especially hard on her. The backs of her knees throbbed with fatigue, her feet and wrists ached, and she could feel a headache coming on. The pain was so sharp, it glowed behind the lids of her eyes. Maybe it was the rain.

“Did you know I was raised by my grandmother?” Wilhelmina asked.

Emilienne shook her head.

“I surely was. I was five years old when they took me from her — both of us screaming and hollering. They took me from my home and put me in that school where I was beaten for just thinking in my own language.” Wilhelmina gave a sad chuckle. “And sometimes when I’m feeling extra down, when I’m missing my grandmother, I have to remind myself that love comes in all sorts of packages.” She motioned to the bakery. “I got this place. Hell, Emilienne, I got you.”

Wilhelmina went over to place a hand on Emilienne’s cheek. “Just because love don’t look the way you think it should don’t mean you don’t have it.”

Emilienne could barely see him when he appeared, his flickering form translucent under the glare of the overhead lights. Despite this, Emilienne could still make out the mangled mess of René’s once-beautiful face.

The last customer bid them good night and walked out into the rain. Penelope locked the door behind him and flipped the sign in the window to read
CLOSED
.

“How’d we do?” she asked, slipping off one of her shoes and wincing as she rubbed her red feet.

Wilhelmina’s hands flew as she counted the till, nodding to Penelope that they’d done well.

“Do we have anything left for tomorrow?” Penelope asked, fluffing her youthful blond ponytail. Even after a full day’s work, Penelope managed to look fresh — her skin dewy, her nose lightly kissed by a splash of freckles. Emilienne couldn’t help but envy the woman for her youth, though many people would argue that — in terms of beauty — Emilienne far surpassed Penelope.

“We’ve got a couple of batches of
pain au chocolat
,” Emilienne told them absentmindedly, distracted by the way René glided around the bakery, passing through the castiron tables and chairs. She was fairly certain that the majority of tomorrow’s customers would consist of the neighborhood housewives donning dark glasses and toting cranky children. The chocolate croissants would keep the children quiet; for the parents’ hangovers, Emilienne brewed a special tea she kept hidden behind the counter. It was only peppermint, but Emilienne believed self-induced illnesses were all in the head; that is, if someone believed Emilienne’s “special tea” would cure them, it usually did.

“What will we serve once we run out?” Penelope asked, drawing her pretty eyebrows together in concern. “People are going to want more than a couple of batches of croissants.” Emilienne sighed, suddenly feeling as though she hadn’t slept since moving to the house at the end of Pinnacle Lane, as if she’d been forced to spend the last thirty-four years without the comfort of a single night’s rest.

“We’ll close,” she answered.

Both women turned to stare at Emilienne; Wilhelmina lost count of the till money. “We’ve never done that before,” she said, shuffling the wrinkled bills into a single pile and starting the tally again.

“Well, here’s something else we’ve never done.” Emilienne pulled the leather rope of keys from her wrist and placed it on the counter before Wilhelmina. “You open.”

Wilhelmina looked up in surprise, but this time she didn’t lose count. Emilienne could see the number balanced on the tip of her tongue. She patted Wilhelmina on the shoulder. “I’m going home,” she announced, and pulled her apron off in one grand gesture, slapping it onto the counter next to the keys.

“Well, you won’t be walking home in this rain. Rowe will take you,” Penelope said, motioning to the back door, where Rowe now stood quietly waiting.

“No. I’ll be fine,” Emilienne insisted. The cloth awning above the door made sharp cracking noises as the wind whipped at the fabric.

“We have to get ready for tomorrow, anyway,” Wilhelmina said. “You go with Rowe. One of the fellas from the festival can drive me an’ Penelope home later.”

Emilienne slipped her arm through Rowe’s. Together they walked to the truck. René followed silently behind them.

Emilienne felt each step in her aching joints. She hoped Rowe didn’t notice how much she needed his help. If he did, he didn’t let on. She admired him for this.

“Your ch-ch-chariot awaits,” he said, opening the truck’s passenger door with a flourish.

He was funny, too.

“I hope my granddaughter falls in love with you,” she said, and when his face flushed red, she immediately regretted having said such a thing. “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me.” She tried to ignore René’s eerie shadow in the back of the truck.

“Wilhelmina says the solstice can have that effect on people,” Rowe said.

Emilienne smiled.

They were quiet during the drive, listening to the rain beat across the top of the old Divco truck. Rowe drove all the way up to the end of the Lavenders’ driveway and then walked Emilienne up to the front door of her house. From the foyer, Emilienne watched Rowe navigate the truck back down the slippery hill. She turned and looked directly at René. “I hope he falls in love with my granddaughter,” she confided.

THE GRIFFITH HOUSE
was like nothing Viviane remembered, reminding her of how fast the world changed and of how insignificant she was in the grand scheme of things. She thought it unfair that her life should be both irrelevant and difficult. One or the other seemed quite enough.

As Viviane made her way up the front walk, a gust of cold, rain-soaked wind rushed up the bottom of her coat. It took the strength of both Viviane and the housemaid to keep the door open enough for Viviane to slip in.

“Quite the full-blown storm out there, isn’t it?” the housemaid said, taking Viviane’s coat.

Viviane nodded and watched as her sodden red coat was hung carefully in the entryway closet alongside several mink stoles and a chinchilla fur muff. The maid offered Viviane a box of tissues. She obligingly took a few, wiped them over her face and hair. If her hair wasn’t already a mess, it surely was now.

When she was finished, the housemaid gave her a complaisant nod. “Come this way, please.”

Viviane followed the housemaid through the house. Gone were the cramped rooms, the rotted floorboards, the crumbling fireplace. Everything was so
chic
— the sunken living room, the wet bar, the big television set. Gone were the details that made it a
home
— the tiny bowls of potpourri, the lace curtains Beatrix Griffith hand-washed each spring with furze-blossom ashes. There weren’t even any family photos. The house looked like it belonged in a catalog.

The maid left Viviane to wait in the kitchen — a room full of shiny appliances, some of which Viviane had never before seen. The countertops were a ridiculous shade of green. A large windowed door led out to the backyard. Looking outside, Viviane saw a pool in the spot that once led to the mysteries of King Tut’s remains. Rain bounced angrily off the surface.

On one side of the kitchen stood an oblong chrome table. In a teal-colored vinyl chair at the end of the table sat Henry, furiously finishing a detailed map of the neighborhood. Eight other such maps were spread across the table. Trouver lay at Henry’s feet, and the big dog raised his head when Viviane entered. He thumped his wet tail against the floor, splattering mud on the wall.

She heard him walk into the kitchen behind her. “He’s pretty good with those maps, isn’t he?” he asked.

Viviane turned. Though his tie was undone, in every other way his suit was immaculate: clean and sharply creased, not one missing button or loose-hanging thread. Who was this unfamiliar man?

“Did you know that one of the most distinguished American mapmakers of the early nineteenth century was named Henry as well? Henry Schenck Tanner.”

“Did you read that somewhere?” she asked quietly.

He smirked, suddenly cocky. “Must have.”

He shrugged off his suit jacket and slung it coolly over one of the chairs. Viviane wondered if he sat on his bed every night polishing his shoes and expensive cuff links, or if he had someone to do that for him.

“I picked him up on Phinney Ridge. I have no idea where he might have been going. And in this weather.” He shrugged. “I figured I should collect him and call you.”

The last fifteen years had taken their toll on Jack Griffith — there were flecks of gray near his temples, but that wasn’t what threw her. It wasn’t even the impersonal house or the ridiculous red-and-white-striped suspenders he wore under his jacket. It was that he seemed unable to look her in the eye.

“It’s good to see you, Viviane,” he said, in what Viviane heard as an attempt to sound casual.

She had imagined this moment many times. She’d prayed and wished for the chance to see him again, yet now that it was here, she couldn’t think of anything to say. It was strange. He was strange. Different.

My mother nodded, cleared her throat. “Yes. Well, thank you for finding him,” she murmured. She turned and began collecting the scattered maps from the table. “We’ll be out of your way in just a minute.”