“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.”
From out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jack’s face fall.
“You don’t have to go right away,” he said in a rush. “I could get Rita to make up something to eat. It’s really no trouble.” He walked up behind her, stopping so close that the toes of his shoes lightly touched the backs of her heels. “It’s just so good to see you,” he said, his voice cracking.
Viviane turned around. He smiled, revealing the gap between his teeth that haunted Viviane’s dreams.
“Listen, I —” He paused. He pointed to Henry. “He’s mine, isn’t he?”
Viviane froze, then nodded. Yes. He was his. So was she, come to think of it. For fifteen years, in fact, she had been his.
“God, Viviane!” Jack exclaimed. “I have a son. You have no idea how exciting this is!” He reached over to ruffle Henry’s hair. Henry cringed and pulled away. “He looks exactly like me, doesn’t he?”