If Gabe had been the age he looked, he would have caught on to the carpenter’s wife’s intentions: the way she offered to make him breakfast in the morning with her hand on his upper thigh, how the children always had an early bedtime the nights her husband played poker with his buddies, the laughter, the glances, the sighs. If he’d been more worldly, he wouldn’t have been so utterly shocked the night she entered his room and climbed on top of him. And he probably would have suspected something by the time she removed her robe, revealing her naked skin in the moonlight. And when she took him in her mouth, he probably wouldn’t have burst into tears, crying, “I’m thirteen!” and run out of the house, his pajama pants wrapped around his ankles.
Gabe spent the next couple of years waiting for the war to hit U.S. soil, and after December 7, 1941, he was the first to enlist, figuring the beaches of Hawaii were close enough. Once again his remarkable height and build allowed him to lie about his age without question. If asked, not one of his fellow soldiers would have guessed the tall quiet guy was only fifteen. His superiors, however, found him to be much too sensitive for battle, as well as too weak-stomached to be a medic, so they let him fight the good fight the only way he could — in the mess hall. While he served canned meat and soluble coffee, Gabe observed his fellow soldiers composing love letters to girls whose creased pictures they carried in their helmets and listened to them speak of their mothers in voices that cracked with longing. He wept every time one of them died. Gabe was discharged with fatigue after just a year in the service — it proved too exhausting to mourn so many lives.
When Gabe appeared at the Lavenders’ front door, his clothes wrinkled and two sizes too small, Emilienne encouraged him to stay as long as he liked. It wasn’t just because she needed a handyman who could reach the light fixture on the front porch. It wasn’t just because she suspected he was clearly younger than he wanted her to believe he was — a speculation that was later reinforced when she noted the way he dipped his head when someone said something appreciative to him and how he shuddered in Viviane’s presence. No, Emilienne welcomed him in because, upon opening the door, she heard a birdsong rising from the east, announcing good love’s arrival.
Viviane paid little attention to her mother’s new houseguest. She failed to notice his youthful gaze and mannerisms. She assumed — as everyone did — that he was much older (and certainly not younger!) than herself. She once called him sir and was confused and embarrassed by his crestfallen face. He was always polite, offering her the last piece of blackberry pie, and it was nice that he fixed the dripping bathtub faucet. And though he was hardly Jack, Viviane would even go so far as to say he was handsome. If you liked that tall, dark sort of thing.
But Viviane’s mind was hardly on her mother’s houseguest right then; rather, it was on the fact that the solstice celebration was that evening, an event that no neighborhood resident dared to miss. Most especially Jack. Or so she hoped.
The yearly celebrations of Fatima Inês de Dores’s birthday had changed since the days when the child had lived at the end of Pinnacle Lane. The gypsy woman and Chinese acrobats were a thing of the past, but the celebration hadn’t lost its magical, sumptuous ways. At night the celebration came to a grand apogée with a giant bonfire in the school parking lot. It was where exhausted children fell asleep — the warmth of the flames against their cotton-candied faces — where high schoolers snuck off to neck in the shadows, where forlorn lovers scribed their woes on blue-lined paper and burned them in the flames. It was a fitting place, Viviane believed, for fate to bring her and Jack back together again.
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?”
Viviane laughed. “I do.”
They danced, and all around them the leaves fell from their branches, some landing in the water to float on the moon’s shimmering silver reflection. Jack looked down at Viviane through the curved arc of their joined arms. “Are you actually letting me lead?”
“Stranger things have happened,” she replied. She was surprised by how much could change in a year, wondered if she felt as foreign in his arms as he did in hers. The music changed over to a slow jazz tune and they stood frozen. After a moment, they pulled apart.
“I have to tell you something,” Jack said while Viviane searched for her shoes.
“What’s that?”
Viviane used Jack’s shoulder for balance. She slipped a shoe on one foot, then the other. He rested his hand on the small of her back, almost timidly. The golden heat of his palm caused a ripple to run up her spine.
Viviane placed her chin on his shoulder. “I think I can handle it,” she said into his ear, hoping she sounded coy.
“I met someone.” And the leaves fell from the trees, landing to float in the calm black waters.
Viviane stood with her chin still resting dumbly on Jack’s shoulder. The music stopped. The moon disappeared from the sky. The couple in the white house had gone to bed, taking the warm light with them. Jack dropped his hand from her back, and all Viviane could think was Where did the moon go?
Jack asked if she wanted to meet her, this someone he had met, and Viviane found herself nodding yes and being led away from the reservoir and back into the midst of the celebration to where a girl stood nervously twisting her copper-colored hair between two fingers. The left ring finger was encircled by a thin gold band, the diamond a tiny pinpoint only noticeable when caught by the light.
As Viviane watched this girl take Jack’s arm, and she saw this girl’s hand meet Jack’s, Viviane was hit by the extraordinary thought that this girl, this Laura Lovelorn — which was, horribly, her name — had bought Jack a birthday present that year, that she had bought him other presents as well: little knickknacks from vacations taken over school holidays, romantic gifts for anniversaries, little tokens of affection for just because. Viviane could see Laura Lovelorn making her way through various department stores and specialty shops, maybe bringing along a friend or two — her future bridesmaids. Viviane could picture the moment Laura found it, this thing, this item that her Jack — because he was no longer Viviane’s Jack but Laura Lovelorn’s Jack — would treasure. Viviane could imagine Laura Lovelorn’s pleasure that she had found her future husband the perfect present, that she knew him that well. Upon imagining all of this, Viviane had the sudden impulse to run, to run until she reached, say, Topeka, Kansas, where she could shed this life and live in quiet refuge as a waitress at a roadside diner. Or something like that.
So she did.
She ran past the booths of pannekaken, krumkake, and fattigmann, and the overcooked ears of yellow corn. She ran past the tainted tents of turquoise and white, the plain-faced girls of the high school’s Key Club and their mothers selling overcooked pies for the Veterans Hospital downtown. She ran past the drunken musicians, the boxes of flea-bitten kittens, the wretched inferno in the school parking lot.
She ran until the night was a blur of blue and black and watery reflections and copper-colored hair. She ran until she reached her mother’s garden behind her house, and there she discovered that Jack had been keeping up behind her the whole time.
Jack stood panting with his hands on his knees.
“This isn’t what was supposed to happen,” Viviane said quietly. “You were supposed to come back for me. Not come back with someone else.”
Jack looked away, squinted up at the glare of the streetlight. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, reconsidered what he was going to say. “She’s nice. You’d like her —”
Viviane stood and turned away from him, looking up at the glow from a window in her house. “I’m giving you to the count of ten to leave,” she said. “Un, deux.”
He stepped closer. She could feel his breath on the back of her neck.
“Trois, quatre, cinq.” She bit the inside of her lip.
“Six, sept, huit.” She closed her eyes at the kiss Jack placed on her neck.
“Neuf, dix.” Viviane could only count to ten in French. She allowed herself ten tears, one for each step it took for her to lay down beneath her mother’s dahlias, her face to the sky. She removed her crown of flowers and threw it on the ground.
She was only vaguely surprised when Jack sat down beside her, smashing the garland she’d spent hours making.
Jack winced. “I’m sorry,” he said, pulling it out from under him and trying to straighten the bent flowers.
Viviane grabbed it from him and flung it back to the ground. “It doesn’t matter,” she said.
What happened next neither of them could ever fully explain. Viviane felt as if she were watching it happen to someone else, someone else’s clothing being undone, someone else’s lips on Jack’s skin, someone else’s ha
nds on his chest. Her thoughts were consumed only with the taste of his mouth and his fingers catching in the knots in her hair. And when he rolled over the garland for the second time that night, she straddled his hips with her own and arched her neck to the sky.
The mulch of the garden felt cool beneath Viviane’s head. It gave off a rich, potent stench that clung to the inside of her nostrils. The largest dahlia in her mother’s collection was called the Dauntless, a bright red flower shaped like a pom-pom and the size of a dinner plate. Viviane reached up and snapped it off at the stem — then tossed it back and forth, amazed by how big it was, yet so fragile she could so easily pluck it right off with her fingers.
Viviane’s white dress hung loosely off her shoulders, leaving her breasts exposed to the moonlight. The skirt had twisted around her waist. She traced the smudges of dirt on her shoulders and fingered the ripped lace on the hem, noting without emotion — how could she possibly feel anything now that she’d lost Jack? — that she was dressed as a bride both the first time she saw Jack, as well as what would probably be the last. There must be some irony in that, though it did little to soothe Viviane’s downtrodden heart.
Viviane could still see the orange flames of the bonfire against the dark sky. If she closed her eyes, she could hear the sounds of the celebration continuing without her: the circled groups of husbands, their voices resounding from a few too many celebratory beers, their wives warning the children to keep away from the fire. If she held her breath, she could hear Jack Griffith whisper in his fiancée’s ear. She exhaled loudly.
Viviane considered herself a rational woman. She was a Virgo. She was used to solving problems, even if it meant she spent far too much time mulling things over in the bathtub. But this. This didn’t make any sense; when she tried to envision her life without Jack or his without her, all she could think of were platypuses. What was a platypus but a kind of duck with fur? The whole idea of it was ridiculous and wrong.