of them did. They were alone together, and I was alone with Malcolm, and I was pierced with indignation and jealousy.
When we reached Victoria, it was Patrick who walked me up the front steps of the boardinghouse. He held the door open for me, and I thought that was going to be the end of it. But he said quietly, “Come to the gallery, won’t you? Come tomorrow afternoon.”
Fifteen
S AY IT , I tell myself.
Say it, even if it’s not the only name that matters.
Emme.
One syllable.
Like the letter
M
.
She worked out well enough, last summer, as a tenant and assistant. She was smart, and she listened well, and she was efficient. Every morning I gave her a list, and by evening she had it all done. She didn’t ask many questions. She figured things out on her own. She didn’t seem to have many plans, besides yoga classes, and I felt a little sorry for her. I began to ask her to babysit now and then, in the evenings. She seemed happy to do it. She came to the house on time. It was always clean when your father and I returned from dinner or a movie, and Clara and Polly were always asleep in their beds. They had a pet name for her, Emme-and-Emme, and they liked her accent and her long hair and her exotic clothes. They liked that she taught them to play card games—gin, gin rummy, even hearts. Her moods were unpredictable, though. Mornings, she could be quiet and subdued, then by late afternoon, she was often radiant and expansive. Sometimes she retreated again by evening, and asthe summer progressed, I began to feel a nameless discomfort when I headed home and left her alone.
The retail space next to the Salvaged Light had been vacant for half a year, then the FOR LEASE sign disappeared, and one morning last July, Emme pointed out that a new sign had finally gone up, THE GREEN UNDERTHING: LINGERIE WITH A CONSCIENCE . The day after that, she told me she’d just introduced herself to the owner, Michael Moss, whom she described as “a lovely man.”
“What is ‘lingerie with a conscience,’ exactly?” I asked her.
“Environmentally correct lingerie,” she said. “Chemises. Camisoles. Teddies. Bras. Panties. All in hemp, silk and bamboo. Never cotton.”
“Why not cotton?”
“According to Michael, cotton lacks a conscience. Cotton production requires massive pesticide use. Developing countries account for less than thirty percent of global pesticide consumption, yet the bulk of pesticide poisonings occur in the developing world.”
“It sounds a little like a marketing gimmick.”
“Not to me,” Emme said.
Was there something off about her? Her eyes seemed glassy, and her manner too bright. Had she been getting high with Michael Moss next door?
I walked over a day later to introduce myself. He was very good-looking. He also had a ring on his finger. To me, he seemed like just the sort of man who would be attracted to Emme. But what did I mean by that? Every man was that sort of man.
A week later, I stopped at the store on my day off and found him leaning back in a chair with his feet up on the dining room table, beneath the chandelier display. Emme was wearing a skirt and cowboy boots, and she was sitting on the table with her knees pulled up, offering him what I imagined was quite a display of her own.
Then, on Tuesday morning, I saw him leaving the store just as I was arriving. To me it was unseemly—the two of them together. I wanted to tell her to stay away from him, and him to stay away from her. But who was I to say so? It was none of my business with whom either of them spent their nights.
W HEN I LEFT home this morning, there were gray clouds in a pale-blue sky and a feeling of impending rain. I drove out of the city to Gold Hill to collect the girls. I was early, so I parked in the little shopping center and got a cup of coffee at the neighborhood café. I had brought along a couple of magazines and a book in a tote bag I’d grabbed from the hall closet. The tote bag was one you’d
When we reached Victoria, it was Patrick who walked me up the front steps of the boardinghouse. He held the door open for me, and I thought that was going to be the end of it. But he said quietly, “Come to the gallery, won’t you? Come tomorrow afternoon.”
Fifteen
S AY IT , I tell myself.
Say it, even if it’s not the only name that matters.
Emme.
One syllable.
Like the letter
M
.
She worked out well enough, last summer, as a tenant and assistant. She was smart, and she listened well, and she was efficient. Every morning I gave her a list, and by evening she had it all done. She didn’t ask many questions. She figured things out on her own. She didn’t seem to have many plans, besides yoga classes, and I felt a little sorry for her. I began to ask her to babysit now and then, in the evenings. She seemed happy to do it. She came to the house on time. It was always clean when your father and I returned from dinner or a movie, and Clara and Polly were always asleep in their beds. They had a pet name for her, Emme-and-Emme, and they liked her accent and her long hair and her exotic clothes. They liked that she taught them to play card games—gin, gin rummy, even hearts. Her moods were unpredictable, though. Mornings, she could be quiet and subdued, then by late afternoon, she was often radiant and expansive. Sometimes she retreated again by evening, and asthe summer progressed, I began to feel a nameless discomfort when I headed home and left her alone.
The retail space next to the Salvaged Light had been vacant for half a year, then the FOR LEASE sign disappeared, and one morning last July, Emme pointed out that a new sign had finally gone up, THE GREEN UNDERTHING: LINGERIE WITH A CONSCIENCE . The day after that, she told me she’d just introduced herself to the owner, Michael Moss, whom she described as “a lovely man.”
“What is ‘lingerie with a conscience,’ exactly?” I asked her.
“Environmentally correct lingerie,” she said. “Chemises. Camisoles. Teddies. Bras. Panties. All in hemp, silk and bamboo. Never cotton.”
“Why not cotton?”
“According to Michael, cotton lacks a conscience. Cotton production requires massive pesticide use. Developing countries account for less than thirty percent of global pesticide consumption, yet the bulk of pesticide poisonings occur in the developing world.”
“It sounds a little like a marketing gimmick.”
“Not to me,” Emme said.
Was there something off about her? Her eyes seemed glassy, and her manner too bright. Had she been getting high with Michael Moss next door?
I walked over a day later to introduce myself. He was very good-looking. He also had a ring on his finger. To me, he seemed like just the sort of man who would be attracted to Emme. But what did I mean by that? Every man was that sort of man.
A week later, I stopped at the store on my day off and found him leaning back in a chair with his feet up on the dining room table, beneath the chandelier display. Emme was wearing a skirt and cowboy boots, and she was sitting on the table with her knees pulled up, offering him what I imagined was quite a display of her own.
Then, on Tuesday morning, I saw him leaving the store just as I was arriving. To me it was unseemly—the two of them together. I wanted to tell her to stay away from him, and him to stay away from her. But who was I to say so? It was none of my business with whom either of them spent their nights.
W HEN I LEFT home this morning, there were gray clouds in a pale-blue sky and a feeling of impending rain. I drove out of the city to Gold Hill to collect the girls. I was early, so I parked in the little shopping center and got a cup of coffee at the neighborhood café. I had brought along a couple of magazines and a book in a tote bag I’d grabbed from the hall closet. The tote bag was one you’d
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