Chapter 7
DELPHINE
The morning after Maren’s show at my gallery, I woke late to sun streaming in though the open window, bringing the scents of seaweed and cedar.
I sat up, yawning, my eyes itchy from sleeping with the windows open.
Pollen counts were high this time of year, especially given the number of flowers I had planted in my garden.
For a moment, I was myself on any ordinary morning, thinking about coffee and what I had to do for the day.
Until I remembered the conversation with Dorian.
The one where I’d confessed way too much.
I should never have had that glass of wine with Maren before the opening. It had made my tongue much too loose.
Why had I told him all that? I’d violated my own rule about keeping one’s dirty laundry to one’s self.
In my defense, he had this uncanny ability to get me to talk.
It might have been the way he listened so carefully, those pale blue eyes emitting empathy and compassion.
There was a quiet strength about him too.
A man who had been through some hard things but hadn’t let them define his life.
A gentle fighter. He pulled me to him without even trying.
That had not happened in a long time. Actually, it had only happened to me once.
Jon. Freshman year of college, there he was, in a painting class.
We’d started talking one day and never really stopped.
Four years later, we were out of school and he suggested we get married.
I didn’t disagree, although it wasn’t something that was important to me.
I’d had an independent streak from the moment I was born.
According to my mother anyway, which is somewhat suspect because she didn’t like me very much.
To be fair, I didn’t care for her much either.
When she died last year, I’d been shocked.
I shouldn’t have been. She smoked two packs of cigarettes a day since she was in her twenties.
Not to mention her love of fast food and cheap whiskey.
We hadn’t spoken since Jon’s funeral, where she’d lambasted me at my lowest point.
Or what I had thought was my lowest point.
It was actually when she said my husband’s suicide was my fault—yes, that was the lowest of the low.
Like I didn’t already think that. Like that’s what you need from your mother on the day you bury your husband.
Sometimes I wondered if she even remembered what she’d said to me that day. I’d had an open bar at the wake. My mother never passed up free booze. Or really any booze at all. It didn’t matter now. I could never ask her.
I made my bed first thing every day without fail.
Lila had found the bed for me, and I’d fallen in love with the upholstered, tufted linen headboard.
I'd dressed it in layers of white and cream that made it feel like sinking into a cloud. A lonely cloud, but whatever. After that, I spritzed water on the hanging plants on the wall above the headboard and told them what a good job they were doing. Trailing greenery softened the room and made it feel like the garden had crept inside, even during cold and dreary winter months. The book from Dorian was face down on the bedside table. I’d read another chapter before falling asleep, and, I had to admit, it was exquisitely written and made my soul ache in a way that felt universal and specific at the same time.
I heard Annie in the kitchen, opening cupboards and drawers, probably making herself a bowl of bran flakes.
She had soccer practice this morning. I’d promised to let her drive there.
She’d recently gotten her learner’s permit and was anxious to drive whenever she could.
I was not a fan. But I kept a lid on it for once and simply gritted my teeth and grabbed onto the strap that hung over the passenger side door when I thought we were on the verge of dying.
I got in the shower, then dressed in a pair of my overalls.
Today I’d spend in my potter’s shed and not at the gallery.
In the summers, my assistant covered for me twice a week so I didn’t have to close the shop when I wanted a day off.
There were a lot of tourists visiting this time of year and many of them had deep pockets and a love for art.
We didn’t want to risk losing any business simply because I liked to take some days off to spend with Annie and our friends while the weather was so lovely.
Annie, bless her, had already put on a pot of coffee.
She’d recently announced that she would like to start drinking a cup in the mornings.
I’d argued that it might stunt her growth, to which I was given a humored eye roll.
I needn’t have worried anyway. What she drank was actually steamed milk with a few tablespoons of coffee instead of the other way around.
The arched French doors in the kitchen were open, the stone path that wound through the garden to my potting shed visible in the morning light.
Lila had helped me choose cream-colored cabinets and open-shelving on one wall, where I kept Jon’s grandmother's china and a collection of ironstone pitchers. Exposed beams ran the length of the ceiling, painted white. The counters were marble Lila had salvaged from one of her clients who had expanded their kitchen. Lila and I were practically giddy when we realized they could be cut to fit my kitchen. One of the things we’d kept the same were the floors, simply finishing the wide pine.
After years of use, they were warm and scuffed and impossible to keep perfectly clean.
I tried not to care, but I’m me, so I did.
“Good morning,” I said, heading straight for the coffee.
“Hey, Mom.” Annie was at the table, eating her bran flakes with slices of strawberries from Lila’s garden. “You still good to drive with me to practice?”
“You bet.”
“We leave in thirty minutes.”
“Got it,” I said.
“Eat breakfast, Mom.”
“Yes, yes, I will.” My daughter was forever on me about eating real meals instead of snacking. I did tend to forget once I started working. I had this odd way of fixating on whatever I was doing, the world fading to black around me. Seraphina and I had that in common.
I stood just outside the doors with my morning coffee, looking out at the garden.
It was at its peak right now, everything blooming at once, as if to thank me for my diligent care throughout the year.
Dahlias, foxglove, zinnias, black-eyed Susans, lavender, all tangled together in a way that looked wild but wasn't. I'd planned every inch of those beds.
People assumed the French cottage garden look meant you just scattered seeds and hoped for the best. It didn't. When I planted, I’d thought carefully about height and color and bloom time and sight lines.
My garden was as much a work of art as my pottery.
Beyond the flowers, half-hidden by the climbing roses and the tall spires of delphinium, sat my potting shed. White clapboard, like the house, with a little covered porch on one side and window boxes I'd planted with geraniums and trailing ivy.
My house had been a disaster when I bought it, but Lila helped me with a decorating plan.
She’d determined my style was French country mixed with coastal cottage.
Lucky me, she did it all in the name of friendship, refusing to accept any payment.
She’d said it was a great job for her portfolio.
And I couldn’t say no. I was hanging by a thread back then, still reeling from Jon’s death, when Lila had called me about a listing she’d seen. “Just come look at it with me.”
I’d never forget the first time I saw the cottage, with its overgrown gardens and peeling paint. Regardless, I’d known immediately. This was my place. I’d put our house in town on the market, which sold right away. Before I knew it, Annie and I had moved into the cottage for our fresh start.
“I’m going to go finish getting ready,” Annie said.
Her long brown hair was down, but soon it would be up in a high ponytail for practice.
I still didn’t quite understand how I’d given birth to a sporty spice, but it was true.
She’d thrived the first time I put her into soccer, taking to it like she’d been born knowing how to kick a ball.
I’d stood on the sidelines, shaking my head.
The other girls had started soccer with her but it didn’t stick.
We should have known when Grace was doing pirouettes instead of paying attention to the ball.
Mia had cheered when the other team scored a goal.
Gillian, Lila, and I had had a good belly laugh after that game.
“Sounds good,” I said. “I’m ready when you are.”
I made myself a piece of toast and wandered into the living room.
My favorite room in the house had a large bank of windows looking out at the front garden.
Built-in bookshelves lined the walls on either side, crammed with novels and art books and the odd terracotta pot with trailing ivy.
Lila had suggested a window seat during the remodel, and I was glad she had.
Annie spent a lot of time stretched out among the linen cushions and sage-colored throw.
A floral armchair Lila had reupholstered for me sat in the corner next to a round side table.
It was as much my spot as the window seat was Annie’s.
I took a sip of coffee and watched a bee move between the zinnias. Annie came into the room, standing in the doorway.
“You ready?” I asked.
“Yes.” She hesitated, adjusting her sports bag over one shoulder. “Mom, will you let me go to the teen meeting tonight?”
“I told you I would.”
She smiled. “Okay, just making sure. And I’m driving to practice, right?”
“Lead the way.”