home, I tried to work in my garden. Putting my hands into the dirt usually helps to distract me from my troubles. For some reason, the lots in the Inner Sunset are more generous than in other parts of the city, and my yard is larger than most. Slowly, I had been transforming my plot into a Provençal garden, complete with olive trees and lavender. I am an unabashed Francophile, having visited the country many times with my mother over the years to attend her exhibitions.
My introduction to French began in kindergarten, as my mother insisted that I attend a French bilingual school. There, a kindly older woman from Toulouse taught me my earliest words. In addition, I lived in Paris briefly during college through an exchange program, where I expanded my studies to include French grammar. The garden is one way I stay connected to France—right down to the antique wooden park chairs outside on my deck.
This time, however, even the garden didn’t help me relax. Though I managed to settle a half-dozen shade plants into the soil on the south side of the garden, I still didn’t feel any better than I had before. In fact, I felt worse. I went inside and opened my laptop. I fiddled with my iPod and created a few new playlists. I updated my Facebook status, and then went back to Spotify to look at new music. Finally, after another hour of spinning my wheels, I texted Lily and asked her to join me for drinks. She immediately agreed to meet me.
I dusted off most of the soil from my clothing and went upstairs to shower and change. I pulled out a black cotton dress with ballet sleeves and a pair of leopard-print flats, then rummaged through my closet until I found a slate-grey cashmere cardigan that draped to my knees.
I headed off to the Mission, a part of San Francisco where one should not show up in a suit and tie. The epicenter of fashion and cuisine, the Mission is in constant motion. It’s a favorite spot among the young and creative who are drawn to its avant-garde clothing boutiques and stylish restaurants. It also happens to be one of the warmest parts of San Francisco—blessed with less fog than most parts of town.
I was meeting Lily at Foreign Cinema, a popular restaurant where movies are projected onto an enormous wall. On nice evenings, it’s heavenly to sit outside on the patio and watch a film while enjoying steak frites and a nice glass of Bordeaux.
Lily was waiting in the long hallway that led to the hostess station when I walked in the door. She smiled, a tentative smile, given that the last time we’d seen each other I had left in a funk. But Lily was my best friend, and it wasn’t her fault that Stoner Halbert seemed to be stalking my clients.
As we were about to be led to our table, I noted a group of men checking her out. Lily’s beauty is such that it can be startling. She is over six feet tall, with straight black hair that falls down to the middle of her back, the blackness accentuating her pale, seemingly glowing, skin. Tonight she looked especially striking in a pair of slim jeans tucked into boots and an amazing vintage military coat, complete with brass buttons. She’d fashioned her hair into two long braids on either side of her head and, as a result, a small tattoo at the back of her neck was visible. The tattoo was a tiny bit of writing in a language I did not recognize.
“What’s the tattoo?” I asked as we walked into the dining room, leaving Lily’s admirers behind.
Lily smiled and rubbed her fingers over the images. “It’s nothing. It’s a design a friend made when I was in college. It’s gibberish, really. Sometimes I forget it’s even there.”
“What does it say?” I asked, intrigued by her reticence.
“It’s written in an old language,” she said. “It means peace and order.”
“Peace and order,” I repeated. “Sounds nice, where can we find some of that?”
Lily squeezed my hand. “You never know, Olivia, it might be right around the corner.”
We were seated at a table outside in the courtyard. The movie was starting early, before sunset, because it was Lord of the Rings, the first part of the trilogy.
“Oh, I love that movie,” Lily said picking up a menu.
“We could do with a bit of make-believe,” I said, scanning the dinner specials.