of her reach. Charlotte had an irritated little smile on her face that gave way to laughter. ‘Give me those.’ She was grinning now, getting ready to chase me around the table for them.
‘Come and get them,’ I said, dangling them in the air.
She darted one way, and then the other, circling around the table until she caught the pantaloons and me, tickling me in the ribs. Her face got very close to the flowers, and she caught a good whiff, grimacing from the stench I knew was emanating from them.
‘Smell something?’ I said, hands on my hips. She can’t deny it now, I thought.
‘God, I know they stink,’ she finally admitted, closing her eyes briefly, ‘I know they do—like an old woman’s cologne. But my husband gave them to me. He couldn’t have known how bad they smell. Could he have? It’s the thought that counts,’ she said, rubbing her shaking hands. ‘Right?’
‘Of course—he didn’t know.’ I sneezed into my sleeve, and we both laughed, Charlotte a little louder than me. ‘Is it all right if I move them near the door? You don’t think I’m offending my husband if I do?’
‘God, no! Please move them.’
Papa had left his store to help Charlotte replace her rickety office door with a new one, lifting the dreadful thing off its hinges and carrying it away for scrap. He stood against the wall, the door in his hands, smiling at us. ‘Just hearing my girls, seeing you together… Feels good.’
I looked at Charlotte, and she looked at me. We both knew the separation was hard on them both. Though, I wasn’t going to mention Mama, thinking it would be too upsetting for Papa if our conversation turned into a political spat. I turned away, but Charlotte piped up.
‘Mama knows where you are if she wants to apologize.’
I gasped. ‘Apologize?’ I said. ‘Charlotte, for what?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Charlotte said.
‘Girls… girls,’ Papa pleaded. ‘What’s happened between your mother and I shouldn’t burden you two. Don’t worry yourself with our problems.’
Charlotte glared at me and I at her for bringing the whole thing up. ‘Sorry, Papa,’ Charlotte said. ‘We’ll stop.’
‘What has gotten into you?’ I said behind Papa’s back. ‘Bringing Mama up to Papa like that?’
Charlotte shushed me. ‘We’re not talking about it, remember?’
‘There’s something else,’ I said, and she looked at me, surprised I’d kept talking. ‘I want to pay my respects to your—’
She grabbed my wrist, squeezing forcefully. ‘Not. Now.’
‘Ow,’ I said, pulling away.
The door flew open and we all looked. There in the doorway, with a furry fox muff wrapped around her big head, was Blanche Delacroix, hard inflection on the “croix”. The last time I saw her we were washing hair together at Salon Fleur.
She waved a limp-wristed greeting from the front of the boutique.
‘A customer,’ Charlotte said, latching on to my arm. ‘Blanche!’
Blanche was a real know-it-all, and we’d been known to bump heads in the past. Her penchant for rumours was unprecedented, even in the hair business. She took the muff off her head and ruffled her pressed hair back to life before touching the maternity brassieres in one of the dressers.
Charlotte tugged on my elbow, and I followed her reluctantly to the front of the shop while Papa snuck out the back, lugging the old door with him. ‘Be nice,’ she said, under her breath.
I rolled my eyes. ‘She’s the one who should be nice.’
She tugged again. ‘Be. Nice.’
‘I will,’ I said, pulling my arm away. Charlotte knew the power of Blanche’s words and her ability to twist things. Appearing confident was the best way to approach her, Charlotte always maintained. But I was never one to care what Blanche thought.
‘Wait,’ she said. ‘You’ve got an eyelash…’ Charlotte removed the eyelash gently from my cheek. ‘There. Now remember…’
‘I know. Be nice.’
We faced Blanche together.
‘Bonjour!’ Charlotte said, kissing her cheeks. ‘Can I help you find something in particular?’ Charlotte leaned forward to see the exact size and style of brassieres Blanche had been thumbing through.
Blanche slipped off her coat and draped it over her arm, her eyes still on the brassieres. ‘I’m not sure what size I need.’
To my surprise, Blanche was half the size she had been the last time I saw her. People used to call her a horse because of the size of her thighs and the sound of her feet thudding against the ground when she walked. Her skin looked loose, as if the sudden weight loss wasn’t a planned decision but a forced one.