She closed the window and left. As she made her way back down the hall toward the stairs, her feet sinking into the waterlogged carpet, she paused outside Henry’s bedroom. On impulse, she pushed the door. His room was empty too.
She ran her hands through her wet hair. “Well, shit,” she said.
From the personal diary of Nathaniel Sorrows:
June 21, 1959
My pacing has worn the rug bare. My clothes have begun to smell. It doesn’t matter. Today marks the summer solstice. That they would put such effort into celebrating a pagan holiday seems only appropriate! Monsters.
She passed by once already, walking hand in hand with the other girl, who had a pair of ridiculous homemade wings attached to her back. I’ve decided to wait until they return. The most I have to wait is a few hours; that I can manage.
As I write this, I peer out at the darkening sky, distracted by . . . Is that rain?
Though I usually keep the front porch light off, I flicked it on. In the beam of light spilling across the sidewalk, I saw one, then two dark spots appear on the cement. Maybe I will ask her inside. And if she won’t come . . . No, she’ll come. She’ll have to.
FOR THE FIRST TIME, my mother understood how parents lost control. Through it all — the lonely pregnancy, fifteen years of sleepless nights — she’d managed to keep her bearings. She’d learned to adapt to whatever came along: Henry’s untouchable world, my wings. If she devised a plan and the plan proved impossible, she just created a new one. She’d never understood how other parents just lost it. Now she did; children betrayed their parents by becoming their own people. She’d never thought that could happen to her, whose children were so . . . strange. Could the strange survive on their own? Viviane hadn’t considered it possible until that moment.
The only telephone in our house sat atop on old forgotten bureau in the hallway along the stairs. The phone had been installed sometime in the early forties. It was heavy and awkward and rang so infrequently that when it did, Viviane hardly recognized the noise at all. It was out of sheer wonder at the sound that she stopped to answer it.
She was greeted by an old familiar voice — funny how, after all this time, he still sounded exactly the same — telling her he’d found her son walking along the side of the road.
“He must have walked nearly two miles in this rain. I’ve got him down here at the house. The dog, too. Tried to dry the boy off, but he’d have none of that.”
Viviane nodded at the phone. “Is he okay? Henry, I mean.”
“Ahh, well, you might wanna hurry over here. He’s acting a bit odd.”
“I’ll be right there,” she assured him, and hung up. She hadn’t the courage to tell him right then that his son was probably acting perfectly normally. For Henry at least.
Viviane threw open the hall closet and grabbed the first thing she saw — a red wool jacket from what seemed like a lifetime ago. Viviane fastened it with shaking hands, grateful it was long enough to cover the dress she was still wearing inside out for luck. By the time she reached the truck, the rain had already soaked right through the wool. Who doesn’t have a rain jacket? she thought.
The truck sputtered and began its slow ascent to life. As she waited, Viviane reached into her purse and pulled out her compact and a tube of lipstick. Holding the mirror close to her face, she slowly slid the red gloss across her lips. It was too dark to see about her hair.
Viviane attempted to back the truck down the hill but stopped when she felt the tires slip in the mud. Instead, she shifted the sliding truck into first gear and veered around the back of the house, driving right through the flower bed that once held the most glorious dahlias in the neighborhood.
As the truck slammed onto the road, Viviane pushed the clutch to the floor, threw it into second gear, and soared into the deluge.
When we left the solstice celebration, Cardigan, Rowe, and I noticed a change in the air. All three of us tipped our faces to the sky, puzzled.
“I think it might r-rain,” Rowe said.
By the time we got as far as the bakery, it was pouring and most people had escaped to their warm houses and cars, leaving the streets empty.
We ducked underneath the awning in front of the drugstore. Cardigan reached her hand behind her back and made a face. “I’ve ruined my shirt. It’s all gooey.” Cardigan’s wings had dissolved into a wet, sticky mess of feathers and glue. We all had puddles in our shoes.
The wind picked up considerably. It peeled the bark from the three birches in front of the store. The strips hung from the branches, whipping and twisting in the angry air. Though Rowe’s navy peacoat was wrapped around my shoulders, I shivered at the sight of the naked trees.
“It’s getting worse. You should probably get going.” Rowe squeezed my hand before letting it go. Rowe had to drive his mother home from work that night, and we all agreed it was too risky for me to hide in the back of the delivery truck. The chance of getting caught was too high, although I did find the thought of it a bit thrilling.
“Are you sure you’re okay to make it home by yourself?” Even standing right next to me, Rowe had to yell over the pounding beat of the torrent.
I put my hands on my hips and feigned annoyance. “Listen. I may be a bit strange, but that doesn’t mean I’m afraid of the dark.”
He grinned. “Just trying to be p-polite.”
Cardigan smiled knowingly and ran into the rain. She disappeared into the cascade of falling water. I turned to follow.
“Hey. Where do you think you’re going?” Rowe teased. I smiled as he put his hands on my hips and pulled me to him. He tenderly brushed the hair behind my ears and ran his fingertips over my face, as if trying to memorize every detail. I closed my eyes, and he kissed me again.
Then, with my lips still tingling, I ran into the rain after Cardigan.
Throughout the city, the rain was proving to be a disaster. Large puddles formed at blocked storm drains and took over yards, street corners, parking lots, playgrounds, empty flowerpots, and raised garden beds. Tree limbs broke and fell to the ground with sharp snaps. Cardigan and I raced toward Pinnacle Lane. Water coursed down my arms and legs, fused my newly cut bangs to my forehead. Cardigan’s makeup ran down her face. As we passed below the worn sneakers hanging from the overhead power line, we both watched with open mouths as the shoes twisted free and flew away into the night.
At the end of the Coopers’ driveway, Cardigan grabbed me and gave me a tight squeeze. “We’re going to be sisters-in-law!” she yelled over the rain, then ran to her house.
If not for a dim glow in the first-floor windows, my house would have looked like just another dark part of the sky. I glanced up at the black second-story windows. I smiled at the thought of sleeping Henry, his fingers curled around the edge of his quilt. I checked my pocket for the chocolate I’d gotten him, making sure it hadn’t melted. The woman at the booth had told me that chocolate came from the Mayans, an ancient people who believed that drinking hot chocolate could bring them wisdom and power. They considered it the food of their gods. I had laughed at the thought of the Mayan gods ripping open little bags of powdered cocoa to stir into warm mugs of milk, but the woman had said the Mayans made their hot chocolate from cacao beans and that they called it xocoatl. I didn’t know if Henry would actually like the sweet, but I knew he would appreciate the new word I’d learned.
The sound of a car door made me jump. At the side of the house, I saw the taillights of Gabe’s truck lit up, glowing red in the dark and the rain. Gabe hadn’t been home for a few days. I tried not to think about where he might be. Whom he might be with.
The truck disappeared around the back of the house. I ran to hide as it careened down the hill and into the road. I stayed hidden until it had driven away.
“Your mother seems frantic to find you.”
I whirled around.
Nathaniel Sorrows stood behind me, holding a black umbrella over his head.
“It can’t be my mother,” I shout
ed through the rain. My mother hadn’t left the house in fifteen years. She didn’t even know how to drive, did she?
“She’d probably say the same thing about you if she saw you out here right now.”
I blushed. He had a point.
“It is her, nonetheless,” he said. “I saw her leave the house and get into the truck.”
“But what makes you think she’s gone out looking for me?” I asked quietly.
Nathaniel shrugged. “Why else would she leave?”
As I thought of the few things that could motivate my mother to venture out from the security of the house on the hill, like discovering that her daughter had snuck out without permission, dread slashed through my chest like a knife. I wasn’t sure what to do. Should I go home and wait for her to come back? Go to Cardigan’s? But then I thought about how angry my mother would be, the injured look on her face when she realized what I’d done. I wanted to avoid seeing that look for as long as possible.
As if reading my mind, Nathaniel said, “Why don’t you come inside? I have a fire going. You can dry off here while you wait for her to get back.” He smiled.
I chewed my lip and thought. I could always go over to the Coopers’ house, but as lenient as Cardigan’s father was, he probably wouldn’t be pleased I’d snuck out. I might even get Cardigan in trouble.
Nathaniel was watching me patiently. He seemed different, I noted. Less pious. More normal. Not nearly as attractive as I thought he was. With a twinge of shame, I remembered my infatuation of only a few weeks ago. What had I been thinking?
“There’s little point to getting reprimanded for sneaking out and the dangers of pneumonia. I know how mothers can be. I could be of some assistance,” he said, “determine some way you could explain your momentary disappearance.”
I nodded. “Okay,” I said finally.
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 pepperm
int, 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.