Perhaps in anticipation of the festivities, this year’s dahlias had bloomed early in a splendid array. Their maned faces filled every garden, like a parade of dancing children in their Sunday best, but none were more glorious than those in Emilienne’s garden. She created her own hybrids in fanciful colors unseen anywhere else: the deepest cerulean blue, fiery reds that faded to yellow or orange or the richest purple, a green so pale they looked white at first glance. They dwarfed the surrounding fruit trees; their colorful blooms arched over the first-floor windows of the house. But hidden by those large blooms was Emilienne’s real garden: white chrysanthemums for protection, dandelion root for a good night’s sleep, eucalyptus and marjoram for healing. There was foxglove, ginger, heather, and mint. The poisonous belladonna. The capricious peony. And lavender. One could never have enough lavender.
Emilienne watched her daughter come into the garden through the rusted iron gate. As Viviane made her way down the path toward her mother, she ducked under the swaying blossoms and batted at them playfully. She was wearing a white lace dress, and in her hair was a garland she’d made in preparation for la fête. She’d spent hours carefully weaving the stems together and tying strands of ribbon to hang down her back.
Viviane looked, Emilienne noted silently, like a bride on her wedding day.
“What are you dressed up for?” Emilienne was troubled by the faraway look in Viviane’s eyes. Lately the only expression Viviane wore was one of misery and longing. This was a different look, Emilienne noted. There was some excitement there, some hope.
Viviane smiled. “Solstice.”
“Ah.” Emilienne stood, brushing the dirt from her knees. “You should ask Gabe to go with you.” Emilienne cringed at her attempt to speak casually with her daughter — it was a skill she’d never mastered.
Viviane was too distracted to notice. “Who?”
“Our guest,” Emilienne pointed to where Gabe was sanding the new railing he’d recently installed on the back porch. “Go ask him,” Emilienne commanded. “It would be polite.”
“Fine.” Viviane sighed. “But I’m going there to meet Jack.”
Emilienne raised her eyebrows. “And you know he’ll be there, how?”
“I just know.”
The glow in her daughter’s eyes left a taste like metal in Emilienne’s mouth.
She reached out and tucked a sprig of lavender into the crown of flowers on Viviane’s head. “For luck,” she said, a bit more gruffly than she meant to.
Without another word, Viviane dreamily skipped back down the cobble path.
Viviane noticed the way the neighbors looked at her mother when they went into the bakery to buy a loaf of bread, noticed how they flinched if her hand touched theirs when she gave back their change. She knew the neighbors thought her mother was strange.
Well, Viviane thought, I guess they could think the same thing about me.
Viviane tilted her head back and breathed in deeply, trying to decipher the concoction of smells in the air. The wet, earthy one was the dahlias — all flowers smelled that way, even the ones with their own pungent odor, like roses and gardenias. Her mother’s scent was that of fresh-baked bread, tainted by a slight brackish tone, as if the bread had been salted with tears. Viviane took in another deep breath, trying to figure out the source of the last of the aromas. It was a rich smell, like cedar or pine. Viviane always found woodsy scents comforting. They reminded her of Wilhelmina, but there was a hint of sweetness in this particular scent that Wilhelmina didn’t have.
For a moment, Viviane allowed herself to admire the muscles in Gabe’s back, glistening with sweat, as he worked. She blushed when he looked up, embarrassed that he’d caught her watching him. “I’m supposed to ask if you want to come to the solstice celebration,” she said.
He set down his tools and squinted down at her. “Supposed to, huh?” he teased.
She rolled her eyes. “So, you want to go or not?”
“How can I refuse such an offer?” Gabe left his tools and lumber scattered across the porch and followed her down the hill. She pretended not to notice as he threw his shirt back on. She wasn’t sure how she felt about how easily his slow ambling gait matched her quick pace.
They made their way quietly through the festivities. The streets were lined with booths offering oversize ears of yellow corn dripping with butter and garlic, Norwegian treats of pannekaken, krumkake, and fattigmann served by the women from the next town over. There were tents of sheer turquoise and white where dark-skinned women danced with scarves, the wooden bangles on their wrists knocking together in tune to their circling hips. The girls from the high school’s Kiwanis Key Club offered face painting for local children, and their mothers sold pies for the benefit of the Veterans Hospital downtown. Musicians played mandolins, accordions, creaky violins, xylophones, clarinets, and sitars from street corners. The poorer families from the other side of the bay sold kittens, chicks, and baby ducks for a nickel.
Gabe waited politely when Viviane stopped to buy a chocolate truffle from one of the booths lining the streets. She wasn’t sure how she felt about the way he looked at her. How he seemed so content just to be in her presence.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you something, Vivi,” he said.
Viviane raised an eyebrow at him. “Vivi? I have a nickname now?”
He smiled, puzzled. “What’s wrong with Vivi?”
“No one calls me Vivi.”
He peered down at her. “Maybe I do.”
She laughed and as she did, she caught sight of the young man standing watching her from across the street. Viviane remembered the slight gap in his smile wistfully, the way one might recall the illustrations in a favorite childhood picture book.
Viviane raised the sweet to her lips, but instead of the sharp tang of dark chocolate and coconut — her favorite — she tasted only her own smile. She glanced absently at Gabe. “I’ll catch ya later.”
She walked away before he could reply.
“Tell me one thing you couldn’t live without.” Jack stepped onto the low cement wall of the reservoir. His reflection in the water seemed pale compared to the brightness of the moon.
“Bathtubs.” Viviane walked neatly beside Jack, her shoes dangling from one hand. The cement felt rough and cool against her feet.
Jack jumped back off the wall. “It would be hard to live without you,” he said, and looked at Viviane in a way that made her realize the seriousness of the conversation.
“You’ve done all right.” Viviane surprised herself by saying this matter-of-factly, without any trace of bitterness on her tongue. She knew that Jack had to leave in order for him to come back. That was just the way things worked.
“Nah. See, ’cause you were always with me.” Jack pointed to his head. “In here.” He pointed to his chest. “And here, of course.”
“Of course,” she murmured.
“Are you cold?” A pale glow from the white house illuminated his face.
Viviane shook her head, happy for the occasional cool gust against her neck and the way it ruffled the garland in her hair.
A song rose into the air; the music surely coming from a radio inside the white house. Jack took Viviane’s shoes from her and set them on the ground. Then he took her hand in his, letting her fingertips rest lightly in his palm. “Remember how to tango?”