“You want to talk about it?”
I stand up, unsure what to do next but unable to stay sitting. The tight feeling in my lungs starts to burn. I want to say the nastiest things; I want to spear him with something he will never forget. I want him to hurt.
“You want to talk about it, after you accuse me … me … of looking at a man the wrong way. After you sleep with another woman …”
“Grace …”
“A woman that you paid to have sex with you?”
“Shit. It wasn’t—I mean, it was awful … I …” He is reaching for my hand across the table, but I step back, my chair sliding a few inches. I scream at him inside my head. How dare you? How could you? I will never forgive you! I feel like Mama, so hot and mad I could do anything. I can almost see her face in front of me, pale and ferocious.
“Please, Grace,” he says, “don’t go. We need … we need …”
“We need what? Huh? We need what, Pete?” The words come out growling. I can feel a stinging heat racing through my blood, through my veins. I feel like I have been injected with Mama. Red and wild. I want to say things I cannot retract. Things like, I shouldn’t have married you. The things she said to me once: I don’t need you. I don’t want you here. Perhaps you were a mistake. I feel myself start to shake. His hand reaches for mine.
“Don’t come near me! Don’t you come near me!” My voice wobbles.
He looks up at me, silent, mouth hanging open uselessly. He implores me with his eyes, dark and sorrowful.
I want to scream those things Mama had said. The last terrible things that could never be erased. Leave me! Leave me now and never come back! Don’t you ever come back! I can feel the tears bubbling up as if from the depths of my being.
“I don’t want to talk to you; I don’t want to even look at you.”
I pick up my plate with a quivering hand and throw it against the wall. It shatters loudly. Gravy slides down the paint in a sticky brown stain. My heart pounds, as though trying to tear through my chest. I can’t be in this room anymore. I push the chair aside and hear it clatter to the floor. I don’t look back. I storm into the study and slam the door. I sit in front of the computer screen, panting, with tears running down my hot cheeks.
My hands shake as the sobs hurl themselves out of me. I breathe in and then out, in and then out. Slowly, slowly. The tightness in my chest subsides to a dull ache, like a headache from a hangover. I feel so exhausted. As though I’ve run a marathon.
Eventually I hear a rattle as Pete picks up his keys. He leaves, closing the door behind him quietly. I put my head down next to the keyboard and stare at the Tab key until it goes blurry.
Dearest Mama,
I am worn down. I feel like a piece of glass in the ocean. Starting out all bright and glittery, and now soft and green and tumbled and opaque; laid out on the sand. Is there a way back from here?
Did you wake up one day, Mama, and feel surprised by how your life was? I felt like that this morning. The sun shining through the windows of the spare room. Pete wasn’t beside me. I reached out for him, but my hand fell on smooth, empty sheets, and it woke me up with a throat full of anger. I put my hand in front of my face, and I thought, Whose hand is this? Aren’t you supposed to know the back of your hand like, well, the back of your hand? I don’t know my hand at all, Mama. I don’t know my hand or my leg or my face. I certainly don’t know my heart.
I am a stranger to myself.
The only place I know myself is in Lillian’s.
Your loving daughter,
Grace
Une Vie Tranquille—A Quiet Life
Pineapple with Butterscotch Ganache
The bell above the door chimes, pulling me up sharply from my thoughts. I am staring into the oven in a dull kind of stupor, watching macarons rise; the gentle forming of something new. My stomach twists into a knot when I hear a man’s voice talking to Rilla. I know I shouldn’t, but I lean a little toward the sound of it. Rilla’s head pokes around the kitchen door, and she speaks quietly.
“Grace? It’s Léon. He wants to see you.”
I wonder if she notices my eyes widen, whether she can hear my heartbeat thrumming in the cage of my chest. She doesn’t say anything, just moves to the sink with cups and saucers. I run my fingers through my hair.
He is wearing a black leather jacket and jeans. He gives me a careful smile. Heat rises from my neck and crawls up my chin to my cheeks.
“Hi, Léon, how are you?”
“I am fine,” he replies calmly. He leans over the counter to place a kiss on each of my cheeks, and I bump against him. The teapot rattles on the bench.
“Can I get you anything?” The percussion of my heart increases its tempo.
“Oh no. I mean … I wanted to talk to you.”
I gesture toward a table and untie my apron.
“Rilla?” I call out.
“Yes?”
“Would you mind getting us some coffees and a couple of macarons?”
She comes out of the kitchen, and her eyes dart between Léon and me.
“Of course, Grace.”
Léon gives a little forced smile. “I’m sorry; I don’t mean to interrupt you during your work. I just thought it would be best to talk. About … well, you know.”
I nod. I know.
He settles into his seat, then looks around the café for a few moments, as if checking to see who is here. The whistling of the milk steamer pierces the awkward silence.
“Léon, I’m so sorry about the other day …”
“Here you go.”
Rilla places an espresso in front of Léon and a cappuccino in front of me, and sets a plate of yellow macarons between us. Pineapple and butterscotch—Une Vie Tranquille. She smiles, then goes back to the kitchen.
I start to speak again, but Léon puts up his hand.
“Grace, please. If I can, I want to explain.”
“Okay.”
“Perhaps there are things that have been a bit, er, lost in translation. I don’t know. Your husband was very upset. Obviously he thinks there is something going on between us.”
“Léon, Pete … he …”
Pete and I have hardly spoken for days. We speak only of toast, dropping off dry cleaning, picking up milk from the store. I can barely look at him without filling with anger and a searing bitterness. I don’t tell him when I will be late home or what is happening at Lil’s. The silence is a kind of poison, slowly seeping.
Léon sighs and leans toward me. He smells of aftershave and, as always, bread.
“Grace, I need to be very clear. You are a remarkable woman.”
I feel my face flush.
“Everything you have done here, with so little experience. I mean, you have a gift for cooking, for this industry. I respect that.” He gestures toward the counter where Rilla is humming and restocking macarons. “Your staff … they seem to really like you, you seem very close. I think you must be a very good leader. Like a mother to them.”
I want to reach out and touch his hand, but he has moved both hands into his lap.
“I am very impressed by you, by all of this. But Grace …” His eyes flash, the color of a cloudless sky. “I am not interested in you. I didn’t mean to give you, or Pete, any wrong message.” He pauses. “I’m sorry.”
I nod and will myself to look calm. To look at least a little bit normal. My throat feels strangled as I pick up my cup. My face is burning now, cheeks probably fire-engine red. I take a sip, even though the coffee is too hot and scalds my tongue.
“Of course. There is nothing to be sorry about.” I force a smile. “There is nothing going on between us; it’s … it’s crazy.” I put my cup down, and it clatters against the saucer.
Léon sighs and pats the top of my hand. “I am so glad you can see this misunderstanding.”
I hear myself laugh. It comes out tight and too high. “Yes, yes. God, you didn’t think …?”
He laughs too, low and relieved. “Celine thought that
maybe you thought … Anyway, you and I understand each other. We are just a couple of foodies, right?”
“Exactly.”
He picks up a macaron and eats it slowly. I do the same.
“Maybe, sometimes …” He shrugs. “Well, Celine says I flirt. For attention, like a little boy, she says.” He shakes his head, unconvinced. “I think it is ridiculous. I am pleasant to everyone, you know?”
I nod. It’s as though he is talking to himself. He’s still not looking at me. He has stirred his sugar into his coffee, and now he is just stirring. The black liquid moves around and around in the cup.
“I like people. I like women. So? I like food and drink and cards too, I mean, this is living life.” He puts the spoon down and lifts the cup to his lips. “Anyway, as you say, it’s crazy. You and me?” He snorts again as though to emphasize the ridiculousness of it. “Right?”
“Right.” I laugh with him, although my chest feels tight and my cheeks are burning and I want to throw my cup against the wall. I remember the gravy sliding down the wall behind Pete’s head. The adrenaline pulsing through me. I sip my coffee as carefully, calmly as possible. How stupid I have been.
* * *
That afternoon Gigi is late. Her hair is a mess. She grins at Rilla and me behind the counter.
“Well, I sorted them out.”
Rilla looks up. “Who?”
“Cheating suppliers.” She slings her bag onto the hook on the kitchen door. There is a little sweat stain around the neck of her shirt. “They said they couldn’t tell the difference with the almond flour. Idiots or liars. We certainly won’t be taking any more of that cheap shit.”
Rilla laughs. She doesn’t have the same culinary interest in macarons that Gigi and I do, but she loves it when Gigi swears. Which she does more and more now, especially when she is excited. Marjory seems to be a bad influence.
“Don’t swear in here, Gigi,” I say tersely.
Gigi looks around the café. It’s pretty quiet. One guy on his mobile phone sitting in the corner. The lull before the after-school rush.
“There’s no one here.” She waves her hand around Lillian’s. “So are we making something new today? I’ve got an idea that is going to blow your brains out, it is so good.”
“A new macaron?” Rilla asks, polishing cutlery with a tea towel.
“Oh yeah, my friend. It is a beauty! Grace, we’re going to need some more lemons for zest.”
A boiling feeling rises in my chest.
Strands of hair fall around Gigi’s face, loose from her sagging ponytail. She reaches behind her back to tie on an apron. It is strained, these days, around that bulb of her stomach.
“If it doesn’t blow your mind, I’m the fucking queen.” She grins, her dark almond eyes glinting.
I give her a sharp look. “Gigi, I’ll ask you not to swear no matter who is in the café.”
Rilla and Gigi glance at each other.
“And try and be on time? It’s a quarter past and neither of us has had a break yet.”
Gigi crosses her arms. “What’s up with you?”
“I own the place, if you hadn’t noticed. Pay your wages? You’re late.” I’m on a roll now; there is a strange kind of poison in my voice. Something pushes me to add, “And you look like a tramp.”
“A what?” whispers Rilla to Gigi.
“She’s saying I look like shit,” Gigi replies clearly. Her face is drawn now, sullen, but her back is straight.
“Are you deaf? No swearing.” Now I have raised my voice to a level where the customer has looked up from his phone call. I straighten. I am not their sister, their schoolteacher, or their mother. I am their boss. Why does it seem like no one ever listens to me? I lower my voice and hiss, “Yes, you look like shit and yes, again, you are late. Try and take this a bit more seriously, Gigi. Act like a grown-up, okay?”
Rilla moves, wide-eyed, toward the cutlery drawer and away from us both.
Gigi narrows her eyes. “Take it a bit more seriously?”
“Yes.”
The door chimes, and I notice our customer has left. Coins lie in a saucer on the table. Lillian’s is empty. The sunlight has that hazy look of early afternoon. Oily and swirling.
Gigi breathes in slowly and lifts her head. Her mouth is pinched tight. She arches one black eyebrow. “Right. Well, I will try and do that, Grace.” She bangs the kitchen door as she opens it, a thick and painful slap of her palm against the wood. Mama’s voice seems to shudder around my head again. Don’t come back!
As the door swings closed, I call out, “Good, glad to hear it, Gigi,” and even I can hear the spite in my voice.
* * *
That night I have the house to myself. Pete is working a night shift, which I know only because I overheard him talking about it on the phone to some shift manager. When I go to the kitchen to pour a glass of wine, there is a piece of paper folded into a little tent next to the olive oil. My name is written across the front. I unfold it.
Grace,
It’s been days since we spoke about it. The silence is killing me.
I promise you it was only one time and that it will never, ever happen again. I am so sorry, Grace. I was lost and angry and I didn’t know what to do. I was drunk and stupid. I don’t know if you will believe me, but I know it will never happen again. I wish I could give you more than this. There is only faith and trust left, I guess. Not much, maybe just enough, I don’t really know.
I want to talk. I think we both need to say some things. Actually we both need to say a lot. Probably about five years’ worth of somethings. Don’t you notice the not-talking? So much not-talking? I miss you, Gracie. I miss you so much.
Please talk to me,
Pete
I hold the paper loosely in my hand. The neighbors downstairs must be having a party. There is a steady, muffled beat rising from the floor. Then a squeal, some laughter, chairs being scraped across floorboards. I put my hand to my head. My forehead is throbbing as if keeping up with the rhythm. Aside from the headache, my whole body feels like it is on fire. Every pore is hot, alive and crawling with sweat. I know it is a hot flush, just another symptom of menopause, my body’s mean little joke. I fold the letter back up and fan myself with it.
Faith and trust.
I shake my head.
All our wineglasses are dirty, along with a pathetic gathering of plates, saucepans, and cereal bowls to the side of the sink. I pick the bottle up by the neck and drink from it instead. Cold sauvignon blanc streams down my throat. My head is still full of thunder. Thumping, thumping, thumping.
Downstairs there is an eruption of laughter. A chorus of men, women, low and high, big guffaws, tinkling giggles, parroty cackles.
My fist slams against the kitchen bench. “Shut the hell up!”
* * *
The next day I fumble with the café keys in the pale, early-morning light. My head feels pinched from drinking too much wine the night before and tossing and turning instead of sleeping. Pete came home around three in the morning and crept into the spare room. I was having awful dreams of children being hit by cars, red-haired witches on broomsticks, falling off a trapeze. I’m so tired this morning my eyes hurt.
I’m carrying a bag of flour balanced against my hip and putting the keys back into my handbag when I see one of the back tables has two chairs down on the floor. I pause. We always stack the chairs onto the tabletops at night so we can mop the floor. I shake my heavy head and open the door to the kitchen.
The storeroom door is ajar.
The bag of flour feels heavy in my arms, and my chest is as tight as a drum. I put the bag down on the counter, trying to make as little noise as possible. My heart races. I press my hand hard against my chest. Don’t be ridiculous, I scold myself. Why on earth would someone want to rob a macaron shop?
I lean toward the hinges of the door, listening for sounds, breathing, the shuffle of a shoe against concrete, but it is as quiet as a church. I peek in, but I cannot see a
nything; the storeroom is too dark. I look up at the ceiling briefly, again willing my heart to slow down and my mind to think with clarity. Moving toward the door handle, I grasp it gently and then pull it just a bit. Silence. A deep breath, then I yank the door open. The storeroom floods with light, and I take a step through the doorway, willing myself to have courage to face what is inside.
Two figures are on the floor, curled into each other. They are absolutely still, but when I look closer, I can see they are pulsing with the small in-and-out breaths of sleep. A blanket is thrown across them.
I recognize Rilla and feel my breath tumble out of me in relief. Rilla must sense the light because she lets out a soft grizzle and moves her chin down to the top of the other person’s head. I see now it is a small woman. Her face is hidden, but she has long dark hair spread out around her. Who is she? What are they doing here?
My relief quickly simmers into anger, coursing through me. I look down again at Rilla’s figure. My mind races with a thousand questions, a thousand thoughts all fighting for space. What is she doing here? Has she been kicked out of her boardinghouse? Why didn’t she tell me? And if she didn’t tell me that, what else hasn’t she told me? Could Linda be right? Have I been too trusting? How many weeks has it been since I’ve counted the money at the end of the day? I’ve been letting Rilla do everything: close up at night; deposit our earnings at the bank. I should have been watching more closely. Could she be taking advantage of me? Or Lillian’s? Sleeping here with some stray woman? How could she do this? In Lillian’s. My Lillian’s.
“Rilla!” I hiss.
The two women start in fright. Rilla’s eyes spring open and stare blankly into the light.
“Get up!”
Rilla blinks, dazed, as she looks around to see who is speaking. Then she recognizes the shadow in the doorway. Her eyes grow wide.
“Wake up.”
The woman in her arms tries to bury her head in Rilla’s shoulder, confused by the light and my voice. Jocelyn. I recognize her now, the small, humble shape of her, as if she wants to become wallpaper, invisible. She has a bruise across one of her cheeks and large dark eyes, her pupils almost black. Who knows what trouble she has got herself into? Jocelyn contracts into a ball on the floor, hugging her knees to her chin, as Rilla scrambles to her feet.
The Colour of Tea Page 19