Florida by Lauren Groff Page B

so that we could go out to dinner at least once on our only vacation in four years, instead of babysitting for Leo for a week while you go out.
    The women both looked at Leo, flinching.
    Whom I love very much, Amanda said. But still.
    Do you feel better? Genevieve said. Some people just don’t mellow with age, she said to her son.
    Leo slid off his stool and went out the veranda doors, down the long slope toward the pool.
    If I didn’t love you like a sister, I’d throttle the shit out of you, Amanda said.
    Her boy gone, Genevieve’s smile was, too. The skin of her face was silk that had been clenched in a hand. I guess you have the right to be upset, she said. I’ve been using you. But you know that food’s the only thing that wakes Manfred up and Leo can’t go to those restaurants.
    Amanda breathed. Her anger was always quick to flare itself out. She came slowly over the distance and hugged her friend, always so tiny, but so skinny these days, her bones as if made of chalk. I’m just frustrated, she said into Genevieve’s crown. You know we’re mostly fine with it, especially since you’re letting us drink all of your champagne.
    Genevieve leaned against Amanda and rested for some time there.
    Oh, my. Well, hello ladies, Grant said, having come down the stairs silently. His lanky arms suspended him in the doorway, his eyes lovelier for the sleep still in them. So beautiful, her husband, Amanda thought. Scruffy, the light on the flecks of white at his temples. Unfair how men got better-looking as they aged. He’d been a little more beautiful than Amanda when they had met; but maybe he only masked his beauty under all the hemp and idealism then.
    When the women stepped apart, Grant said, Even better idea. Let’s take it all upstairs, and he winked.
    Big fat perv, Amanda said, and kissed him, her handsbriefly in his curls, and went out into the driveway, walking a circle around the dead bird before setting off on a run down the hill toward the village.
    Genevieve and Grant listened to Amanda’s footsteps until they were gone. Grant smiled. Genevieve smiled. Grant raised an eyebrow and nodded upward toward the room under the eaves. Genevieve bit her bottom lip. She looked down the lawn; Leo was all the way past the pool, in the cherry orchard, huddling over something in the grass. She looked at Grant wryly, and he held out his hand.
    She moved toward him, but before they touched, they heard a step heavy on the stairs. Manfred.
    Fuck, Grant mouthed.
    Later, Genevieve mouthed. She clicked the gas on the stovetop, pulled eggs from the refrigerator. The flush had already faded from her cheeks when she cracked them in the pan.
    Grant set the espresso maker on the stove; Manfred entered the room. His hair was silvery and swept back, and he carried himself like a man a foot taller and a hundred pounds lighter.
    The old swelling in Genevieve’s chest to see him in his crisp white shirt and moccasins. He sat at the scrubbed pine table in its block of sun and lifted his fine face to the warmth like a cat.
    Darling, she said. How do you feel today?
    I’m having difficulty, he said softly. Things aren’t coming back.
    She measured out his pills into her hand and poured sparkling water into a glass. It hasn’t been three weeks yet, she said. Last time you got it all back at around three weeks. She handed him the pills, the glass. She pressed her cheek to the top of his head, breathing him in.
    Eggs are burning, Grant said.
    Then flip them, she said without looking up.
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    —
    The bees above Leo were loud already. Grass cold with dew. Leo was careful with the twigs. He wouldn’t look at the vines beyond; they were too much like columns of men with their arms over one another’s shoulders. Beyond were tractors and the Frenchmen in the fields, too far to pluck meaning out of their words: zhazhazhazhazha . There was a time before Manda came, and after his father returned from the hospital looking like a boiled potato, when