The Peacock Emporium(100)

“Yes, I do. I know you as well as I know myself. I knew you the moment I saw you, so beautiful and—and furious, trapped behind the counter of your shop.”

She was shaking her head now, the vibrations of the hammer echoing through her, drowning out everything but him, the smell of his skin, the terrible nearness of him. “I can’t—”

“Tell me you don’t know me,” he whispered.

She was crying silently now, no longer caring if Mrs. Creek was watching.

“Tell me. Tell me you don’t know who I am.” His voice was hoarse, urgent in her ear.

“No—I—”

He slammed the board by the side of her head, so that the banging stopped temporarily. “Suzanna, please. Tell me you don’t know me.”

She nodded, finally, her face crumpling, her eyes closed against him, lost in the scent of him, the proximity of him. “I do . . . I do know you, Ale. I do.”

Vindicated, he turned from her, wiping at his face with one hand.

Her voice came at him from behind, halting: “But that doesn’t make it right.”



* * *



—

He had left less than a minute later, his face so hurt and furious that she thought she might shrivel and die. That might have been preferable to him ever looking at her like that again. Seconds later Neil, dusty and satisfied, had emerged at the sound of the steel door slamming. “You’ll be glad when you get your good one back,” he said, fanning his ears. “Sounds like you’re being locked up in prison every time that one shuts. Right. I’m done. Do you want to examine my handiwork?”

“No,” said Suzanna, biting back tears. “I trust you.”

“More the fool you, eh?” said Neil, winking at Mrs. Creek. Before he left, he gave her a supportive hug. “You look washed out,” he said kindly. “Why don’t you see if there’s someone else who can help you for the next few weeks? It’s a big job, running it all by yourself.”

He couldn’t understand why this made her start crying again.





Part Three





22


It is said, among the rare few who have returned from such a state, that the last few moments before drowning are quite pleasant. As the fight ends, and the water floods into the lungs, the victim enters a passive, accepting state, even sees a kind of perverse beauty in their condition.

Suzanna thought of this often over the next few weeks. Sometimes it felt like drowning. Sometimes it felt like sleepwalking, as if she were going blindly through some predetermined motions, not entirely in control of the things she said or did. Some might have said, she thought wryly, that this was an improvement. At home she kept the house tidy and the fridge well stocked, and had failed for some time now to complain about the low beams. She and Neil were gentle with each other, solicitous, each recognizing that the last weeks had damaged the other in some way and not wanting to be responsible for any further hurt. She told Neil she loved him once a day, a sentiment that, to his credit, he was always quick to return. Funny how in marriage a statement that had in its infancy started out as a question, even a provocation, could ultimately become a kind of benign reassurance.

She thought little of Alejandro. Consciously, anyway. At night she often woke crying and wondered fearfully what she had said in her sleep. Neil had put down these nocturnal episodes to Jessie’s death, and she felt guilty, apologizing silently to Jessie that she had let him.

Alejandro didn’t come into the shop. But, then, not many people did. Once the high drama of Jessie’s death had faded, once the flowers had been removed and the mawkish had melted away, Suzanna had been left with just a few regular customers. There was Mrs. Creek—who came, Suzanna suspected, because she had worn out her welcome in most other places. She had once overheard the woman’s name mentioned in the market café, followed by a rolling of eyes, and she had felt briefly sorry for her. Except that Mrs. Creek’s relentlessly self-involved stories and demands meant that sympathy never lasted for long.

There was Father Lenny, who told her solemnly that if she ever wanted to talk, really talk (here he raised a meaningful eyebrow), he was always there for her. Oh, and if she wanted some beaded lamps at a good price, nice ones, mind, he knew where there were some going. Liliane came in occasionally, glowing with what was possibly new love, and bought among other things a pigskin wallet for Arturro and several handmade greeting cards. She didn’t speak to Suzanna more than was strictly necessary, and despite the apparently happy outcome, Suzanna knew that in some way she was not forgiven for the chocolates in the way Jessie might have been.

Arturro came in, at least once a day, to buy an espresso that she suspected he no longer needed. She had heard on the town grapevine that he was thinking of having his own machine installed, and was holding off only out of loyalty to Suzanna, perhaps in the belief that the shop had suffered enough. He was endlessly kind, checking that there were no jobs needing doing, offering to mind the shop for her so that she could run out to get some lunch. She didn’t take him up on it very often. It was rare, these days, that she felt hungry enough to make the effort to buy something, and she was afraid that if he hung around too much Liliane would eye her more malevolently than she already did.

Occasionally she would catch him looking at her with sad, wary eyes, and she would force a bright smile that said, “I’m okay, really.” A smile she found herself using so often that she had forgotten what the real one felt like.