“Pas mal.”
Mimi and George are both bilingual. My French is atrocious, but I getpas mal. Not bad.
She takes a long drag of her cigarette before stubbing it out.
“There’s fried rice for you in the fridge,” I say.
“Gorgeous girl. How are you feeling?” she asks, her dark blue eyes fastened on me in a way that reminds me of her grandson. Mimi no longer has a ballerina’s upright spine—hers curls inward like a fern frond—but there’s something about her that feels regal.
“That’s not the first time I’ve been asked that question today.”
“George?” she asks.
“My mom.”
“Well, it’s a big day. You had a vision for what your life wouldlook like, and things turned out very differently. I know how that feels.”
Mimi thought she’d be married to ballet but then she fell in love with a lumber baron who preferred quiet to the city.
“I’m okay,” I say. “Although sometimes it feels like my whole life has fallen apart.”
The bad days from the last two months flash before my eyes.
The note on blue stationery. The nights spent tallying my faults. My credit card statement. The obliterating waves of loneliness.
“C’est bête,” Mimi says. “One day at a time. Keep your head up, shoulders proud, andbreathe, Francesca. Remember what I used to say in class:Breathe from your belly.”
A laugh honks out of me.
“What’s so funny?” she asks.
“Ballet.”
Mimi chortles.
For a few years, Mimi held ballet lessons for local children in the ballroom. She said she was bored. My mother signed me up, but Mimi kicked me out after three lessons. I can still hear her telling my mom, “Francesca struggles to control her breathing, and she’s rude to the other girls.”
For some reason, it was always easier to dance with George.
“This, too, shall pass,” Mimi says. “Everything does. Besides, I never thought he was the man for you.”
“That opinion seems to run in the Saint James family.”
“Few people know you better than me and George.”
It’s true. When we were kids, George and I usually foundourselves here after school. Mimi let us have grape pop with our afternoon snack and then George and I would run upstairs to play. She had closets full of outlandish clothes and trunks full of old wigs, hats, and other fodder for costumes. The Big House was our castle.
“No one knows me better than George,” I say now.
Mimi lights another cigarette. “At one time, yes, but I’m not sure that’s the case anymore. Your engagement was quite the surprise.”
She stares at me as she takes a long drag.
“I wish we could go back to the way we were,” I say quietly. “Why can’t things stay the same?”
“You can never go back,ma chère. You can only go forward. You’re adults now, not children running around in bare feet, spitting watermelon seeds at each other.” She waves her cigarette at me. “But who’s to say what the future will bring? I spent years holed up in here, mourning my husband, my estranged son, and the grandson I barely knew.”
“And then George moved in,” I say.
