Markie reached for the cooking oil to discover she was out, so she called upstairs to tell Patty she was going to the store. It wasn’t until she reached the parking lot that she realized it was midday and she wasn’t feeling self-conscious about being out in plain view. She even felt prepared to trade pleasantries with the cashier! She watched her reflection in the front window of the store and swore she could see a bounce in her step, even with the walking boot.
And she didn’t look half bad, either, since she had put her hair up into a tidy bun before she left instead of leaving it in her usual haphazard ponytail. The sweatshirt she wore wasn’t torn or stained or two sizes too big. Her socks matched. She had even put on earrings. And her grocery list—cooking oil, yeast, and paprika, plus extra toilet paper and toothpaste for her houseguests, a bottle of Lola’s favorite bubble bath, and a new box of crayons—made her feel like she had plans, a life. Her usual list made her feel like a shut-in.
For the first time in half a year, she allowed herself to meander through the entire store rather than scurrying into the freezer aisle and out again before anyone noticed her. In the baking aisle, she found the oil and spices she needed, then added pancake mix to her cart along with ingredients to make muffins and cookies. In the household section, along with the basic toiletries for the upstairs bathroom, she found little soaps for the sink, a matching set of hand towels, and a candle.
She bought a cactus for the kitchen windowsill, too, and two packages of magnetized letters for the fridge. They could serve double duty: spelling practice for Lola and a means to hold up any new coloring pages the girl gifted to Jesse and Markie. In the produce section, she chose a carton of strawberries to go with their pancakes and added some oranges and grapefruits, thinking Lola might find it fun to squeeze them into fresh juice.
Picturing Lola standing on a chair at the kitchen counter making juice brought to mind all the times Markie had begged her mother to let her help in the kitchen. But Lydia didn’t want her counters or her child to end up covered in flour, and Clayton didn’t like the idea of “greasy little fingers” all over his bread dough. Markie added a child-size rolling pin to her cart, then added a larger one in case Jesse wanted to help, too. He wouldn’t want to dress the part, of course, but she found small pink oven mitts and a matching apron for the eight-year-old who would. She estimated her cart total in her head and decided she could afford to splurge on one more small thing, either cookie cutters or autumn-themed muffin cups. Then she pictured Lola’s face and decided to buy both.
At home, she met Jesse and Lola, who were on their way back from Mrs. Saint’s, and they all walked in together, Markie stooping to set the grocery bags on the floor. Patty jogged into the kitchen to greet them, Angel trailing her.
“Check it out,” she said. “I made a few . . . changes.”
“Whoa!” Jesse said.
It was an overreaction for a set of garbage-picked shelves, Markie thought, but when she lifted her eyes, she saw he was reacting to something else. Patty had hung a quarter of the art collection in the family room, and the once-empty walls were now crowded with color and texture as giant oils elbowed their way against small photo prints, and ornate gilt-edged frames cozied up to ones made of rustic wood or black lacquer.
“Wow!” Markie said.
She had always been a minimalist decorator, following the example of her mother in erring on the side of too many large swaths of empty space rather than overcrowding. She had also always complied with Lydia’s imperative that one mustn’t assault the senses by mixing too many patterns or colors or textures in the same small area. In Markie’s old house, just as at Lydia and Clayton’s, all of the black-framed pictures occupied one wall, with the brown, wood-framed pieces warranting their own separate section, while the gilt-edged ones took up occupancy far away, to prevent cross-visualization.
“Busy is never a good thing when it comes to decorating,” Lydia liked to say. “Simple is always better.”
Patty had followed none of Lydia’s rules. Her artistic vision was a study in diversity, busyness, and complication.
“What do you think?” Patty asked.
“Whoa,” Jesse said again. “It looks as though someone actually, like, lives here now.” Quickly, he turned to his mother, adding, “I mean . . . I didn’t mean . . . I only meant . . .”
Markie laughed. “I get it. And you’re right. It does feel like that.”
“I love it!” Lola said, moving slowly around the room to examine each piece. “I never saw so many arts in one room in all my life! Where’d you get it all?”
“It’s all Markie’s,” Patty said. “It’s been in the basement.”
Lola spun to face Markie, her mouth an accusatory O. Markie felt pathetic.
“They just moved in, remember,” Patty said, and Lola’s lips closed into a forgiving smile as she went back to her slow tour of the art.
“I don’t remember the shelves,” Jesse said.
“Acquired today,” Patty said. “By me and Angel.”
“From . . . ?” he asked.
“Someone’s curb,” Patty said.
“Nice,” Jesse told her, and Lola echoed him.
“You like it?” Patty asked. “Not everyone wants secondhand stuff.”
Markie felt her cheeks flush and wondered if something in her expression had given her away earlier, when Patty had first arrived with the shelves. Or was it that Jesse had come off as a spoiled rich kid? He did that from time to time, and Patty would definitely pick up on it.
“Why not? Way cheaper,” Jesse said, saving himself and, Markie hoped, his mother.
“And way more interesting,” Patty said, holding up her right hand to show off an old-looking silver ring she wore. “I love old, quirky things.”
“Hey!” Jesse crossed the room to her in a single stride, reaching for her finger. “That’s the one I found behind Mrs. Saint’s garage! She gave it to you? I thought it was in her special suitcase where she keeps all her important things.”
“She told me it was her Edouard’s mother’s,” Patty said, holding her hand out, fingers straight, so they could all admire it. “She said she wanted me to have it. It’s from ‘ta famille,’ she told me, so I should wear it. I’m not really sure what that means”—she turned her hand and admired the ring herself—“but you can bet I thanked her anyway and took it!”
Later, when the kids had raced outside with Angel, Patty showed Markie the ring again. “I wonder why she gave it to me. Maybe she senses she’s . . . slipping. She won’t say what they told her when she spent the night in the hospital. If Frédéric knows, he’s not talking, either.”