Madame Mirabou's School of Love

by Barbara Samuel

  Everything that had felt off center suddenly didn’t matter at all. I hugged her tightly in return, smelling the particular milk and morning freshness of her skin, and for once, it was perfectly fine to be just in this minute.

  This very one, right now.

  “I thought,” I said, pulling into traffic, “that we could have some supper at my apartment, then do whatever you like with the rest of the evening. Are you tired?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “How does delivery pizza sound for supper?”

  “Not that great. I honestly haven’t been eating very much junk food.” She lifted one brown shoulder. “It’s a different world in California.”

  “Ah—well, you’ll like the restaurant I’m working in, then.” I changed lanes. “It’s all organic food.”

  “You’re a waitress?”

  I gave her a sidelong look. Measured her reaction when I said, “Yes.”

  She tilted her head. “Do you like it?”

  “I do, actually. We’ll go over there tomorrow for breakfast and you can see what it’s like.”

  “Okay. And your cat? Did you get him yet?”

  “No. I’m feeding him, but he’s still very scared.” I paused. “You might see him tomorrow—we’re going to spend some time at the shop I told you about. Kit and Evelyn are going to meet us and help me get things cleaned up. I don’t have to spend the whole day, but they don’t have any other time to meet me, and I need to get the place open by Memorial Day.”

  “That’s fine, Mom. Really. I’m just happy to see you.”

  Something huge welled in my heart, and I managed to barely avoid saying, Really? I looked at her. “I glad to see you, too. I miss you insanely.”

  She was quiet for a little while, looking out the window. “I miss Colorado. I thought it would be so cool to live in California, and I like the ocean, but it’s different there. I miss Pikes Peak.”

  “My uncle Joe used to say that you could never really leave the mountains, that they’d always call you home.”

  We were traveling through the middle part of the city, on the interstate. “Can we drive by the old house?” she asked.

  I didn’t immediately reply. “It’s not really there anymore, you know.”

  “I know. I just . . . I guess I just want to see what it’s like now.”

  “All right,” I said. “Before I go there, let me say there are times in life you might want to remember what was, instead of what is. You know?”

  She looked at me, biting her lip. Her eyes were always more serious than a child’s, and that was true right now. “I know what you’re saying. And actually, that’s kind of why I want to see it. To remember that things really have changed.”

  “Okay.” I signaled and slid across several lanes of traffic to take the Bijou exit, which took me almost directly downtown. I turned north on Cascade, and as we drove, I made small talk with Giselle, asking about school—fine; friends—a few; boyfriends—none. A few blocks down, I turned west, then turned again, onto Wood Avenue.

  It was a revered little strip of houses, with ancient trees and mansions of the old school—built when labor was cheap and the silver money was flowing. These houses boasted three and four floors, servant staircases and quarters, bedrooms by the dozen. The lots were generous, with deep gardens of thick bluegrass and old peonies and roses, and porches overlooking the serenity.

  Daniel had grown up about a mile south, in what had been one of the worst neighborhoods in town in those days, though it was gentrifying in a big way now. His mother had been a domestic all of his life, so he’d had the opportunity to glimpse both sides of the stairs, and then he’d been bussed to high school—my high school— in the suburbs, where he’d been in class with colonels’ daughters and lawyers’ sons, and he’d made up his mind he’d make his way into their world.

  And he specifically wanted Wood Avenue. The first decade of our marriage, we drove the area at least once a month, dreaming. Everything he had was poured into becoming successful enough to make it happen. Most of the occupants of these places were surgeons, lawyers, other professionals of that nature. He was a contractor, and not necessarily of their educational levels, but he made a fortune in his contracting business by knowing what they wanted. Our little family, when we moved in, gave the neighborhood a little cachet, a little bohemian flair, so they welcomed us.

  “I never did like this neighborhood,” I said.

  “Why?” She sounded shocked.

  “It’s kind of stuck-up. Everybody is always so worried about keeping up appearances.”

  “I guess,” she said, and went quiet as we pulled in front of the lot where our old house had been. The old property had been razed, and eventually a new one would be built here. The area was exquisitely valuable.

  Our house had been built by a silver millionaire in 1888, and it had had three full floors, plus an attic for the servants—or in our case, offices for Daniel and me. It had had fourteen rooms, a sun-porch, a front porch, and a balcony over the back garden. I’d always found it dark and cold, and spent whatever time I could outside in the gardens.

  “The tulips look great,” Giselle commented.

  I nodded.

  “All right,” she said. “I’m done.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yes.”

  When we were back on the highway, I said, “So, what’s your new house like?”

  She shrugged. “Big. Pretty. Perfect.”

  “Are things okay?”

  “They’re fine,” she said in weary voice. “I just wish . . .” She sighed.

  “Wish?”

  “That we could go back to the old days.”

  I touched her hand. “I know.” I would have added, Me, too, but it would have been a lie. Seeing the empty ground where the house had been standing, all I’d felt was a sense of relief.

  “I think Dad misses you,” Giselle said. “He talks about you all the time.”

  In spite of myself, there was a little frission of spiteful pleasure over that. “I’m sure that goes over well.”

  “Oh, he’s careful when she’s around, but when we’re by ourselves, he’s always mentioning things about you—like, ‘This is like your mother’s garden,’ or ‘That looks like something your mom would wear.’ ”

  I carefully kept my eyes forward, sorting through the possible replies. I wasn’t sure what her agenda was, or if she had one. Finally I said, “That’s natural. We knew each other pretty well, after all.”

  “Do you ever miss him, Mom?”

  “I missed him the night I didn’t want to go downstairs and check the pilot light on the furnace, that’s for sure.”

  “Not like that. You know what I mean.”

  There was strong emotion in her voice, a slight unsteady fierceness that told me my answer mattered. To choose it properly. What did she need? Hope for? Reassurance?

  I took the Fillmore exit toward the apartments, mulling it over. Carefully, I said, “I miss things about our old life. Saturday mornings, going to garage sales. That was fun. And Sunday morning breakfasts.”

  “I mean Dad. Do you miss him?”

  “Sometimes,” I said. It was not entirely a lie. “But we have to accept that the past is over, capiche?”

  “I know that, Mom.” She shifted irritably. “You’re not dating or anything, are you?”

  I thought of Amy, complaining to her mother that kids just didn’t want to know certain things about their parents. I wasn’t sure where I was with Niraj after Wednesday night—and anyway, Giselle didn’t need to know anything right now. Without directly lying, I said, “My life is pretty full without men to make it complicated.”

  “Good.”

  Top Notes

  I have perfumed my bed with myrrh, aloes, and cinnamon. Come, let us take our fill of love until the morning. Proverbs 7:17–18

  Happiness is a perfume which you cannot pour on someone without getting some on yourself. RALPH WALDO EMERSON

  19r />
  Nikki’s Perfume Journal

  THINGS THAT SMELL GOOD

  8/3/1989

  Raspberries

  Pomegranates

  Bread baking

  Clothes dried outside on the line

  Baby hair

  When we arrived at the apartment complex, there was a swarm of traffic in the parking lot, including what I thought was a television news van. For one searing second, I wondered if something bad had happened with Roxanne, and in the next split second, I was reassured by noticing there were no police cars or ambulances. And no, no police tape.

  The fact that I should have that reaction told me I was more worried about Roxanne’s stability than I’d realized. I would have to talk to her.

  “What’s going on?” Giselle asked.

  “I’m not sure. I looks like happy news, since there’s no cops.”

  She looked at me with alarm. “Do you get cops in here?”

  “Sometimes.” I shrugged. “Look around, Giselle. It’s a few hundred apartments, probably. There’s bound to be trouble in a village now and then.”

  I parked in my usual place and only then did we see the army khakis, obscured by the suits of the news people. “Soldiers,” I said aloud, and my heart leapt again, this time for the possibility of happiness. “I bet some soldiers have come home.”

  “Oh, cool!” Giselle said, and peered curiously toward the knot of people. “Can we go over there?”

  “Sure. A welcome is always a good thing.” I wondered if it might be Wanda’s husband.

  We walked up the sidewalk, and there were a dozen soldiers or more, along with their young wives and little kids looking somewhat apprehensive over the men holding them so happily. I saw Wanda standing next to a burly man with swarthy features. She looked stunned and happy, her cheeks blooming with delight. He had his arm around her, his other hand on his five-year-old son’s head.

  It was the merest glance, but in that second, I saw something I recognized from long ago. A mask of pretend politeness, and beneath it, panic.

  And I was suddenly nine years old, and we were having a welcome home party for my father. There was cake and flashbulbs going off, and too many people crowded into our tiny house in Stratton Meadows, and I found my father in the backyard, drinking a beer, staring at the peach tree, all alone.

  “Come on,” I said to Giselle. “She’s my neighbor. We can greet her later.”

  I thought she was going to protest. Instead, she looked at me and followed without a word.

  Inside the apartment, Giselle looked around with no expression. “Isn’t that the couch from Mrs. Vargas’s basement?”

  “Yep. All of it is stuff people gave me.”

  She nodded, accepting that, and I felt ashamed for misjudging her. Curiously, like a dog, she moved around the perimeter of the apartment, looking out windows, pausing at various spots. “It’s nice to see all these plants in here. My stepmother doesn’t care for house-plants.”

  “I see.” It didn’t surprise me, somehow. She with her lacquered nails and pedicured toes. “Let me show you your room.”

  “Cool.” She grabbed her backpack and followed me down the short hall. I pointed to the bathroom, moved with no small amount of apprehension into the back room. “Oh, wow,” she said. “Cute! It’s like French provincial or something. Isn’t that what this white stuff is called?”

  “Maybe. I’m not sure. We don’t have to keep it, but for now at least you have some furniture.”

  She turned, eyes bright. “Could we paint it? Maybe a bright coral with thin bands of yellow? Or . . . turquoise with bands of red or—” She looked back at it. “Something like that anyway.”

  “Absolutely,” I said with a laugh. “I love your color sense, girl. I’ve been floundering without you to steer me in the right directions.”

  “I can tell,” she said, flipping a pointed finger up and down at my dress. “You look like you did a Sound of Music with that dress.”

  I laughed and spread the skirt out. “What, you don’t like it? I was trying to look like a mom or something.”

  “How can you not look like a mom?” She was genuinely bewildered.

  “I’ll get rid of the dress,” I promised. “Now, what for supper? If not pizza, some Chinese? I think there’s a Chinese close by, too.”

  “Nah. We eat way too much Chinese. I get tired of it.”

  “Oh, I bet you do.” I waved my hand. “Let’s go to the kitchen. I need something to drink.”

  I padded into the narrow little room and kicked off my shoes, took out some store-brand sparkling water, and poured a glassful. I waved it at Giselle, and she shook her head. I took a long, satisfying swallow and felt a tiny bit refreshed. “No Chinese. No pizza. What sounds good?”

  “Anything?” she asked.

  “Within reason. We’re not doing seafood, if that’s what you mean, or Red Lobster.” She could eat her weight in crab legs.

  “You know what I’d love?”

  “What?”

  “Your spinach quiche and those little brown rolls.”

  I struggled to keep a straight face. Part of me was delighted, already checking things off to get at the store. She loved me, loved my spinach quiche! Proof, right there, that I was the superior mother.

  Another part of me was using an invisible hand to slap me soundly. My feet and shoulders were tired from the short night, the long day. My eyes, my legs were tired. Even my hair was tired. I opened the fridge to see what there was. “Hmm,” I said, stalling.

  There was pretty much nothing in there. A quarter inch of cheese. Two lemons. A half gallon of milk, an orange, and some lettuce stuff. I had planned to get takeout tonight, then shop tomorrow, and there was only some breakfast food in the house. Quiche had a lot of steps and a lot of ingredients.

  Then again, how often was my only daughter in my house, asking for anything? I smiled. “I can’t do the rolls because they have to be started early, but I can do the quiche. I’ll run across the street and get a few things. Anything else you can think of that you’d like to have?”

  “Hanson’s soda? Can I check my e-mail while you’re gone?”

  “Sure.”

  I got her settled with the computer, scribbled out a grocery list, and headed down the stairs. Grimly, I must admit. It was fivethirty. The store would be packed. It was a headache to get across the street, and it always made me feel guilty to drive across the street anyway, but the traffic this time of day would make crossing the street on foot a very dangerous undertaking.

  But there were things you did for your children.

  On my way down, I stopped impulsively at Wanda’s apartment and knocked smartly. Her husband, still in uniform, opened the door with a scowl. “No more interviews.”

  I waved a hand with a smile. “No, no. I’m your neighbor, Nikki, and I’m headed to the grocery store and thought I’d stop and see if you guys needed anything from the outside world.”

  “Nikki!” Wanda cried, coming out of the back bedroom with a freshly changed baby on her hip. “That’s so nice of you!” She pushed her husband gently aside and he looked confused. Then irritated. “Tom, this is Nikki Bridges from upstairs. Nikki, this”—she beamed—“is my husband, Tom. They sent them home early!”

  “How you doing?” he said gruffly. His hair was brush cut, the sides nearly bare, the top an exact quarter inch long. His face was darkly tanned, and there was weariness in his eyes. “Sorry about that. They’ve just been hounding us all day.”

  “It’s all right,” I said. “Understood. It’s nice to meet you.” I held out my hand and he shook it with firm formality. I let go. “So, you need anything, kiddo?”

  “I would love a gallon of whole milk, and some bacon for breakfast. Can you give her some cash, honey?” She dashed for the back when one of the other children started to cry. “I’ll get the kids fed and we can have a nice, quiet supper when they go to bed.”

  He reached into his pocket and peeled off a couple of twenties. �
��There’s a liquor store over there, isn’t there? I’d kill for a quart of vodka and some orange juice.”

  “Sure.” I met his eyes. “Welcome home.”

  For an instant, I thought he might cry. He wiggled his nose. “Thanks.”

  It was a delicious luxury to sleep in the next morning. I managed to stay in bed until seven, which was very late for me these days. Giselle was tucked like a flat little frog beneath the covers, her long legs sticking out of the blankets. I covered her and went back out to have coffee and check my own e-mail.

  Nothing much going on there. Which meant there was nothing from Niraj, a fact I felt with a rippling disappointment. He’d obviously decided I was wounded after all, and who could blame him?

  But damn. I liked him. In only a few weeks—maybe a month— I’d grown to enjoy his e-mails, his little nicknames for me, the possibilities he represented.

  It occurred to me, sitting there in my bathrobe in the cool morning, that maybe he was waiting for me to make the next move. I’d been the one who pulled back, after all. Should I send him an e-mail or an e-card or something?

  I didn’t know the answer. Maybe, at any rate, I should wait until Giselle went home, since she was obviously fretting about the idea of me dating.

  I showered, drank a second cup of coffee, and put together a plan for the cleaning later in the day—with any luck, we could get everything all the way clean so I could start painting after I took Giselle to the airport. I’d take her to the restaurant today for breakfast, then either run her back here until later, or talk her into going to the pool in Manitou. She’d have to go alone, but it would be a lot easier on me, and it would be more interesting than sitting around the shop while we cleaned.

  Combing out my hair, I poked my head into her room. “Giselle, how long do you need to get ready?”